


Cemetery Road

by revwestwood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Canon Related, Danger, Death, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Character Death, Loss, Major Character Injury, Medical, Mystery, Post Reichenbach, Post-Canon, Sentimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 31,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revwestwood/pseuds/revwestwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen. Then they stay dead.”</p><p>Sherlock returns to 221B to take out the last strands of Moriarty's web with John's help, but Sherlock underestimates just how far that web stretched. This time, Sherlock won't fall alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mrs. Hudson’s dismayed exclamation easily reaches the upstairs sitting room. “For heaven’s sake!” she says to no one in particular, “Shoving rubbish through a mail slot! What is the world coming to?” 

John and Sherlock leap from the sofa with a simultaneous cry of “Mrs. Hudson!” John crashes to the floor in a cloud of obscenity, tangled in the laptop cord. Sherlock reaches their landlady before she manages to bend down to pick up the refuse.

“Please, Mrs. Hudson! Allow me.” Sherlock gently takes Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders and guides her away from the tiny pile of kabob sticks, crumpled tissues, and empty food wrappers. 

Mrs. Hudson protests mildly, “Sherlock, it’s fine. For once this isn’t your mess; you really don’t have to...”

“Yes, he does,” says John, limping slightly down the stairs. “Remember about delivery people and packages? It’s really better if Sherlock or I handle them. At least for right now.”

“But it’s rubbish,” Mrs. Hudson gestures to the pile, flustered. “How is rubbish a package?” 

“All the same, if it comes through the mail slot, best let us handle it,” John says stepping in front of Mrs. Hudson so they can make eye contact. “All right?”

“Yes, all right,” she sighs. “You boys handle the leavings of rude teenagers if you want. They interrupted my program anyway.” She looks at Sherlock crouching over the pile with confused concern then returns to her flat. Coronation Street gets louder then softer as she opens and shuts her door.

“So,” says John, turning back to Sherlock. “Is it one of yours?”

“Yes. I’ve been expecting this.” Sherlock picks through the pile with careful efficiency. “Here!” he shouts, standing, and presents a greasy bag that once held Prawn Cocktail flavored crisps with a triumphant flourish to John. 

John’s eyes flick to the bag then to Sherlock. “I’m not touching that.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and dumps the contents of the bag into his own palm. Orange flakes of crisp and a small scrap of paper fall into it. The paper is nearly translucent with vegetable oil, but it is still possible to read: “Ferrier Estates. Wixom House. 5F. Kitchen.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleam with excitement. 

“This is it, John. The last one.”

He holds John’s gaze for a long moment, the hand with the crisp debris and paper scrap held out as if offering the contents to John. John stares back, wondering what sort of reaction Sherlock wants because clearly he is expecting John to do or say something. 

The doorbell rings and John jumps. Sherlock tosses the crisp bag over his shoulder and stuffs the paper into his trouser pocket. With his foot he shoves the rest of the rubbish out of the way of the door so he can open it.

The man in the trench coat at the door opens his mouth to say something, but Sherlock is already speaking.

“Don’t bother. You’re too late. The gas has seeped in. The bomb’s gone off. The fire’s already reached the second floor. Tell my brother if he is going to have us spied on 24 hours a day it would behoove him to get someone at least slightly competent to do the job.” 

He slams the door and turns back to John. “Fancy a Tube ride?”


	2. Chapter 2

The Tube ride is long and crowded, necessitating a trip into the center of London before they can switch trains and head south. A heavier than usual April rain seems to have driven most of the city underground. Mercifully, the crushing press of humanity steadily thins with each stop as they approach their destination.

It’s a short walk from Kidbrooke Station to the Ferrier Estate. The rain has settled into a misty drizzle, blanketing the six massive, empty council houses in a gray haze. It’s easy to imagine a lunatic social scientist masterminding an experiment to crush the souls of Britain’s working class using nothing but endless towers of utilitarian concrete. But no, these estates were designed by the great bureaucratic committees of the 1960s. Maybe that’s worse.

Rubble-strewn craters mark where several of the towers have been demolished in the last few years. One house is half gone, its top stories and much of its left half sheared off. John has the bizarre thought that the house is in pain—vulnerable with its interior rooms, prefabricated dry wall, and torn rebar exposed to the elements. Afghanistan is suddenly much closer than he wants. He shakes his head to dislodge these flashing memories, forcing his breath to be even and deep.

“Charming,” John says after several long minutes of silence. “You take me to the nicest places.” Sherlock doesn’t respond. He is surveying the grounds and the remaining towers, hands in pockets, coat collar turned up. They are standing on a broken asphalt road leading into the Estate and next to a giant sign with a map of the complex, which is almost unrecognizable due to all the graffiti covering it. It is oddly quiet. Besides the rain dripping softly, the wind rustling a few scraggly trees not quite budding, and the A2 in the distance, Ferrier Estate is silent, deserted. 

“Well,” says John, used to being the only one participating in a conversation, “That’s not going to be much use.” He jerks his thumb toward the sign. “Which one’s Wixom, then?” He’s not sure if it would be good or bad for them if Wixom House is already a pile of dust and asbestos.

“This way,” Sherlock strides up the road, taking the first branch to the right, past the half-demolished building. 

John trots to catch up, falling into step beside him and lengthening his own stride more than is strictly comfortable, but John is used to that too. “You really think this is the last one? How can you be sure?”

Sherlock had spent most of the last year systematically hunting down and destroying the many strands of the web Moriarty had left behind, the web meant to ensure Sherlock stayed dead and disgraced unless he wanted his friends to take his place. 

Sherlock was efficient in taking down the network. Codes broken, computer systems hacked, mobiles stolen, contacts impersonated, decoys planted. It had all come tumbling down. Having Mycroft Holmes for a brother provided most of the necessary resources. 

It was also Mycroft who convinced Sherlock it was time to come home, although John had not known that at the time. John had not been...coping...well. It had been months since the fall, but his PTSD was getting steadily worse. Days would pass without sleep, and when he did manage it, he always woke screaming. Battlefield nightmares merged with more recent events: every IED went off in London, every bullet lodged in his shoulder came from Moriarty’s gun, every mangled corpse had Sherlock’s bloody face. Sleeping pills, strong ones, were the only way he managed some respite. 

Mycroft’s surveillance noticed that John was filling his prescription for Halcion at multiple chemists. Mycroft knew Sherlock’s progress. He knew that there could only possibly be a few tiny threads left of Moriarty’s web. Sherlock’s obsessiveness was such that Mycroft knew his brother would fight coming home until the crusade was complete, but he also knew Sherlock had not anticipated this particular danger. So Mycroft implied that perhaps John was hoarding pills. Sherlock came home.

John didn’t like to dwell on the cocoon of grief Sherlock had deemed vital to protect him. His relief at having him back outweighed the anger. Most of the time. They had had those arguments and probably would again every time Sherlock took reckless chances or made impulsive decisions without consulting John. “It’s not just you now, Sherlock,” John had told him at the end of that first row. “If we’re doing this together then it has to be together. No more shutting me out. No more lies to protect me. No more...leaving. I can’t do that again. Not ever again.”

Sherlock answers, nudging John back to the present moment. “It is the last because it’s the only drop point left with any chance of still being active, though I doubt that it still is. All signs point to this being the one phone Moriarty left ringing that no one has answered.” 

“A ringing phone?” John’s brow furrows. “Sherlock, I find it hard to imagine any of these buildings still have electricity much less—”

“It’s a metaphor, John.” Sherlock interrupts with a sigh. “Obviously not an actual phone. I neutralized the last of those in October.”

“Ah. Right,” says John, as if this makes any sort of sense. “So...”

“So Moriarty’s communication network relied on computers, mobiles, encrypted databases, and files. It was global and instantaneous, which meant high tech. But he was smart. He knew that every bit of technology, no matter how sophisticated, is vulnerable. That’s one account on which I was only too happy to prove him right. So he had backup methods to send instructions. And backups for his backups. Every layer I’ve discovered and eliminated has revealed another, each progressively more primitive in nature but no less effective.”

They arrive at Wixom House, the faded painted letters still legible over the blue metal doors that lead to the lobby. Sherlock approaches the doors with his lock picking kit already in his hand. He frowns. The door handles are chained and padlocked. Sherlock looks disappointed and puts the kit back in his coat pocket, removing a set of keys instead. He pops open the padlock with a master key and lets the chain fall to the ground. He opens one of the doors with a flourish and a smile in John’s direction then enters the building.

John peers into the dark lobby, turns on his torch, and follows on Sherlock’s heels, wishing for the hundredth time that Lestrade had not confiscated his gun.


	3. Chapter 3

In the lobby, the paint is peeling off the walls in jagged strips, giving the shadows cast by the torch a sinister asymmetry. A filthy mattress is blocking the stairway landing, held up by an overturned sofa that looks and smells like it has been set on fire and doused with urine. Often. John puts a hand over his mouth in an attempt to quell the stench. Sherlock crinkles his nose but makes his way toward the fetid furniture sculpture. He hesitates only briefly before pushing at the mattress. It doesn’t budge.

“John, put the torch down and help me.”

John sighs heavily and immediately regrets it. Seriously, how can anything smell this bad? He leaves the torch on, setting it on the disintegrating linoleum floor. 

“Moriarty couldn’t have hidden the last drop point at the Ritz? Or maybe the Louvre? I hear lots of madmen hide world-altering secrets in the Louvre,” John says, grabbing the mattress in the least stained corner.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Pull!” Sherlock pushes the mattress with his shoulder while John tugs from the other side. “I cleared out the Louvre in July,” he grunts.

The mattress topples over into the lobby, followed by a dozen scurrying, squeaking shadows. 

“Jesus!” shouts John, falling back onto the stairs. Sherlock helps him stand and continues up the staircase. 

“Just rats, John.”

“Yeah, I know that. But did you see them? I’ve seen smaller Labradors.”

“No, you haven’t,” calls Sherlock from the second floor. A pause. “Dachshunds, maybe.”

John kicks at the sofa a few times to be certain the rodent exodus is complete before hurriedly fetching the torch and running up the stairs after Sherlock.

Sherlock gets to use his lock picking kit on the door to 5F, which seems to please him, releasing the tumbler in a matter of seconds and pushing the door open with a gentle but confident shove. The windows haven’t been boarded up this high, and murky light filters into the hallway. 

“Well. That’s something then,” says John, switching off the torch.

Sherlock looks at John sharply, putting a shushing finger to his own lips. He side-steps into the flat, keeping flush with the wall. 

“What? Really?” John whispers, “Now we’re being sneaky?” 

The flat is tiny: sitting room, kitchen, loo, and two oversized cupboards that can almost pass for bedrooms. It takes less than a minute to be sure they are alone. There is nothing in the flat except stale air. In the kitchen stand a tiny refrigerator and oven that must have been installed when the building was new. Sherlock opens the refrigerator, the oven, the cabinet doors, peers down the sink drain using the torch. He does a circuit of the entire flat, then returns to the kitchen, repeating his previous steps faster, then slower, then fast again.

John stations himself in the sitting room, just outside the kitchen door where he can observe without becoming an obstacle. Sherlock is on his back, looking under the sink like a car mechanic. From the banging, John knows Sherlock is getting frustrated. Sherlock gets up with a grimace, his teeth on edge. He jumps onto the counter and removes the light fixture, dumping a disturbing amount of desiccated insect corpses into the sink. He paws through them, and then tosses the plastic dome into the sink with an exoskeletal crunch. Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, pacing in a smaller circle now.

“So, what exactly are we looking for?” John asks, knowing that speaking right now might not be the best choice he could make.

“A message in a bottle,” Sherlock answers distractedly.

John nods, willing to accept the brush off, then stops. “Really? That’s not a metaphor?”

Sherlock stops pacing and looks at John for the first time since entering the flat. “No, John, not a metaphor. A literal message in a literal bottle.”

John pictures pirates and treasure and lost maidens on desert islands. Moriarty’s network really did have some primitive backup. 

Sherlock is on his hands and knees, face pressed to the floor, straining to see under the refrigerator, then the oven, with the torch. “John!” He is excited now. “There’s something here!” He jumps up and hands the torch to John. “Reach under and get it!”

“Sherlock, my hands aren’t really that much smaller than yours, you know,” John protests, but Sherlock is pushing him down. 

“You reach under and get it. I will lift the oven. Mine is the more difficult task.” Sherlock takes a wide stance over John, preparing to lift the oven.

John wants to say that it is only more difficult until the ancient appliance crushes his arm, but he knows it would do no good. He gets on his stomach and peers under the oven. It’s possible there is something hanging down, flush with the underside of the oven.

“Do you see it?” Sherlock demands.

“Yes.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock strains and manages to tip the oven back against the wall, raising the front of it off the floor by about two inches. It’s enough. John grabs the object and snatches his hand back. Sherlock drops the oven the instant John’s hand is clear.

John is holding the tiniest chemist’s bottle he has ever seen. He can’t imagine it could hold more than a few pills. A magnet has been glued to the outside. Inside there is a roll of paper.

“Message in a bottle,” John says softly, stands, and hands it to Sherlock. 

Sherlock hesitates, suddenly wary of the implications of the tiny plastic bottle, the likes of which he hasn’t seen since the night his new flatmate killed a man for him. He takes it from John gingerly, picking it up vertically between thumb and forefinger. He holds it up to the light of the window, his head at an angle as he studies it. He finally uncaps the bottle and shakes the paper into his palm, unrolling the tiny scroll.

It’s a photograph of a pudgy middle-aged man in a wool cap. On the bottom is written a name and what Sherlock immediately recognizes as a hackney license number.

John looks at the picture over Sherlock’s arm. “Wait... that’s... That’s the cabbie! Isn’t it? That’s the cabbie who tried to kill you!”

“The same,” murmurs Sherlock, his gaze lost out the kitchen window.

“But this means...” says John, eyebrows knit as he contemplates the photo. He looks up at Sherlock. “What does this mean?”

“This was Moriarty’s insurance policy, in case he needed the cabbie removed early from the equation.” Sherlock stays facing the window, eyes flicking side to side. “But you ended that scenario for him.”

John swallows thickly, looking down at the picture again. He imagines photos of Sherlock’s face, Mrs. Hudson’s face, Lestrade’s face, his face rolled up and stuffed into tiny hidden bottles across London.

“So Moriarty wanted the cabbie dead?” 

“No,” answers Sherlock. “At least, not when you shot him. If he had wanted him dead, this bottle would be empty. Its message would have been retrieved ages ago.”

“So...” John continues, still confused. “This is a dead end.”

Sherlock stiffens then whirls to face him, grabbing John by the shoulders. “Yes! It is! A dead end!”

John is baffled by Sherlock’s excitement. This man despises dead ends. He should be working himself into a proper snit now, not shouting with glee. 

“I’m...glad you are taking this so well,” John manages.

“Of course! Don’t you see? It’s a dead end! The dead end! No more paths to follow! No more strings to cut! The web is finally gone! Finished! It’s over, John!”

Sherlock is spinning them both now, and John can’t help but grin at the display and what this means for Sherlock. For both of them. No more Moriarty’s ghost. No more guards. No more fear at every strange sound and shadow. They can have their lives back. Sherlock can solve cases, and John can blog about them, and everything can go back to normal. Whatever normal means for them. John can’t wait to find out.

Sherlock releases John and leaves the flat with a bounce in his step. John follows him, still grinning. Sherlock practically skips down the stairs, vaulting over that horrid sofa and mattress. He opens the lobby door and gallantly gestures that John should go first. 

John laughs and exits the council house with Sherlock right behind him. The rain has stopped, and the sky is on fire with sunset.

“This calls for a celebration,” Sherlock announces. “Hungry?”

“Starving, actually.” John looks over his shoulder, grinning even wider. “Angelo’s?”

Sherlock returns the grin. “In that case, I really should call us a—”

Sherlock’s sudden silence is the only warning John has. 

He turns just in time to face the dark figure as he steps around the corner and strikes.


	4. Chapter 4

The blow knocks John hard onto his back, causing his head to hit the pavement and his vision to dim to near blackness before fuzzily brightening again. 

Jesus. Had he just been punched? By whom?

He tries to take a breath and sit up but can’t. He must have had his wind knocked out. 

Who attacked them? Sherlock! Where was Sherlock? 

John gasps for air and struggles to move his head, searching for Sherlock with frantic eyes.

There’s a hollow ringing in his ears and everything is muffled, as if he is at the bottom of a well, but he can make out the sounds of a scuffle somewhere close by. Shoes scraping on asphalt. Grunts, short cries, and a dull clattering. A slamming sound and a hoarse yell. A wet cracking followed by a definitive thud of a body collapsing to the ground. 

Then just blood thundering in John’s ears. 

“Sherlock!” John shouts but it comes out more like a cough.

Sherlock appears, crouching above John’s head. His bottom lip is swelling, and his scarf is gone. Raw, red welts stand out on his pale neck. “John! Come on! We can’t stay here. There may be more. Get up!”

“Are you all right?” John asks. Or tries to. His voice barely comes out at a whisper. 

A succession of emotions ripple across Sherlock’s face in an instant as his gray eyes scan John. Mouth tightening in annoyance. Head tilting ever so slightly in confusion. Brow furrowing in concern. Eyes narrowing in assessment and then widening in fear. 

Understanding floods through John as he watches Sherlock’s face. He tries again for air and finds it is getting harder, not easier. 

Of course. Not punched. Stabbed. 

He’s been stabbed. 

Funny, being shot felt like fire. This feels like thick water, far heavier than water has any right to be. John lifts his head, his chin disappearing into his neck as he cranes to see his chest. Ah. There. Red blossoming asymmetrically on the front of John’s cream cable-knit jumper several inches below his heart. Well, at least the knife missed his heart. His lung on the other hand...

Even though he knows what will happen, or what won’t happen, John gasps for more air and gets nothing but a wet wheeze for his efforts. His chest feels like it might explode. His left lung has been punctured. Collapsed. The air it once held has escaped into his chest cavity and is in the process of collapsing his right lung as well with every breath he takes. He flashes back to an operating theater at St. Bart’s. He and a dozen other medical students standing around the body of a young man killed in a car wreck, watching as the teaching physician cracks open the rib cage to show them deflated gray lungs, crushed impossibly flat against the man’s spine. “A perfect example of pneumothorax,” the doctor had told them.

John’s self-diagnosis is interrupted in a blinding wave of pain as Sherlock hoists him from beneath his armpits and drags him between a dead hulk of a Volkswagen and the cement wall of the council house, providing them both with a bit more cover. 

John would have screamed if that had been physically possible. There is the fire! The water is on fire now. 

Sherlock is tearing at the wool jumper, roughly pulling it over John’s head. John’s back arches in agony, which only makes everything worse. He pants uselessly. 

No air being exchanged. Nothing.

“Can’t breathe,” John mouths. Sherlock glances at him briefly but says nothing. 

Oh God. Sherlock didn’t insult him for pointing out the obvious. This is bad. Sherlock’s long fingers fight to open John’s brown plaid shirt, finally ripping it in frustration, the buttons popping off into the dark alley and beneath the car. Blood seeps with startling speed from the wound on his bare chest. John looks at it but then puts his head back down again, his eyes shutting tightly then opening wide. This is very bad. 

But, then, John knows that. How often had he been in Sherlock’s position, staring down at some terrified 19-year-old kid who just left two of his limbs and most of his guts on the battlefield? At least John had had a med kit in Afghanistan. There were tourniquets and thoracostomy tubes and lovely morphine in a med kit. All they had now was a filthy alley and a rusty Volkswagen Polo. 

No. This can’t be happening. This isn’t fair. After everything they’d been through, everything they had managed to overcome, after everything he had survived, why now? Why now when he had just gotten Sherlock back? When everything was finally going to be all right again?

Sherlock is pressing the jumper sleeve onto the wound, kneeling next to John and looking about frantically. With one hand squashing John’s chest with sodden wool and pressure, he reaches into his coat pocket with the other and retrieves his mobile phone, hurriedly pressing a series of buttons with his thumb. His eyes continue their manic scan of the empty road as he shouts into the phone, “Mycroft! We’re at the Ferrier Estate, by Wixom House. We’ve been attacked.” The briefest of pauses. “No, I...John’s been injured. He’s... What? No! Send everything! ... Everything! Just get here! Now!”

He tosses the phone aside and moves up onto the balls of his feet, looking as though he’s about to spring up and run.

John grabs Sherlock’s wrist without consciously deciding to, keeping him there. Fear is taking him now, worse than Afghanistan, worse than the tunnel or the pool, worse even than Baskerville. The initial shock is wearing off. Every cell in his body screams for the oxygen it cannot get.

John knows this is finally happening and there is no way to stop it.

John locks eyes with Sherlock, and Sherlock freezes in mid-rise. 

John wants to say so much, but speaking is impossible now. He wants to tell him that he doesn’t want this. That he is sorry that Sherlock has to watch because he knows what that will do to him. That he is sorry for what Sherlock will go through next because he knows that hell all too well. He wants Sherlock to promise to eat and to sleep and to keep...going. He wants to at least say goodbye.

Sherlock holds John’s gaze for a long moment, eyebrows knitting. He exhales raggedly. 

“Shut up, John,” he says and bolts away.


	5. Chapter 5

John listens as Sherlock’s footfalls recede around the corner, pause, then come back toward him. John lifts his head, but the effort is almost too much. Still, keeping Sherlock in sight feels like the single most important thing he can do right now. 

Looking past the undercarriage of the Volkswagen, he can make out Sherlock’s shoes on the other side. Glass shatters and the car door is pried open. Sherlock reaches in, pulls something, and then raises the bonnet with a metallic protest. 

“Yes!” Sherlock shouts at the engine block. He dives into it, ripping and pulling. 

John’s head is too heavy. It falls painfully back onto the asphalt. Blackness is chewing away the edges of his vision. 

Sherlock is kneeling beside him again, rolling his wool coat and gently placing it beneath John’s head. He’s speaking rapidly, and John struggles to listen, to hear what Sherlock is telling him.

“...We can do this, John. There’s no reason why this won’t work. It will work. It’s simple, really. Show me how.”

Sherlock is holding something and looking at him.

What the hell? 

John can’t make his brain work. Everything is moving too slowly and too quickly at the same time. The aching fire in his chest is spreading, radiating out. He feels like he is falling. His hands scrabble on the asphalt and clutch at nothing.

“John!” Sherlock sets the object aside and grabs John’s head in both hands. “I can do this, but I need you to help me! I need you to focus!” 

Sherlock picks up the object again and holds it in front of John’s face. John blinks. It’s a long stiletto blade, wet with blood. His blood, John realizes dimly. 

Sherlock lifts a nest of coolant tubes he has torn from the Volkswagen so John can see those as well. 

Oh. 

Oh, my God. 

John understands what Sherlock means to do. 

It might work.

Sherlock takes John’s left hand and fits it around his own. 

“Show me, John. Show me where.”

John’s vision is narrowing into a gray tunnel, but he doesn’t need to see. With Sherlock’s help, he brings their hands to the side of his chest, probing weakly with his thumb as he finds the space between his fourth and fifth rib. He stops, leaving his thumb in the spot. He looks at Sherlock at the other end of the tunnel and gives him the slightest of nods. 

There.

Sherlock places John’s hand back on the asphalt and puts the knife tip on the spot John indicated. Without hesitation, he plunges the blade in several inches. 

John’s back arches again, and Sherlock firmly presses him back down, removing the blade. “Try to be still. This next part might be challenging.”

Sherlock uses the knife to cut a foot-long section of the coolant tube, quickly boring three holes into one end. He inserts the blade back into the incision he’s made and glances at John. “This is probably going to hurt.”

Sherlock lifts up on the blade, opening the incision wider and shoving the mouth of the tube into the wound. 

John doesn’t pass out, but he wishes to God he would. He didn’t know it was possible to feel pain like this, and he considers himself an expert on the subject. Sherlock is twisting the tube. Just leave it, John wants to scream. There’s a tugging sensation on the far side of the pain and quite suddenly the exploding pressure in his chest is diminished. 

John gasps with the sudden relief but there is still no oxygen. 

Sherlock is above him now, his face hovering just over John’s. His lips close over John’s mouth, and he forces a steady breath into John’s lungs.

Air. 

The inside of John’s chest feels like it was hollowed out with a Brillo pad, and his puncture wounds burn as though made of acid, but he has never felt anything so wonderful as this. 

Air. 

Breathing. 

Definitely not boring.


	6. Chapter 6

John wallows in the magnificence of breathing, his vision clearing with each swallow of air. After a few gulps he looks over at Sherlock, who has removed his suit jacket and is shredding one of the sleeves with the help of the knife. “You’re all right. You’re all right,” he mutters just under his breath, ripping the sleeve into long strips. Sherlock’s tone makes it a statement, not a question.

“Sherlock,” John says and starts coughing. “Ow,” he manages when the fit subsides. He tries shallower breaths. That seems to help. “Sherlock,” he starts again, “It worked. It’s OK.” 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock says, working one of the fabric strips around the tube sticking from John’s chest in an attempt to lessen the bleeding. He moves to John’s first puncture wound next, removing the soggy jumper sleeve and baring his teeth as blood continues to seep steadily from the hole. He repacks the wound with more strips, pressing down as hard as he dares. 

Sherlock is surprisingly gentle in his ministrations, John muses. He would have made a good doctor. Then John starts to giggle, which leads to another coughing fit. 

When it stops, Sherlock is staring at him with a mixture of bafflement and horror. John shakes his head weakly. “Sorry.” 

Sherlock swallows. “Don’t be. I look forward to hearing what is so amusing later.” He lifts the bandage compress quickly and then immediately replaces it. 

Still looking at his hands he says, “John...”

“Yeah,” John interrupts, “I know.”

“Tell me what to do.”

John’s eyes flick to the Volkswagen. “I don’t suppose there might be a few pints of O negative in the boot?” he asks and attempts a smile.

“John,” Sherlock says again. “What do I do? Tell me. What do I do?”

His voice is so vulnerable that John is actually stunned. Sherlock never sounds like this. He’s never heard him without at least a modicum of arrogance, a hint of confidence. This is frightening. 

John looks into Sherlock’s waiting eyes, eager for his answer, and he wishes more than anything that he knew how to lie to this man. 

 

There was a time when he thought he could. Sherlock had let him know as only Sherlock could that John was perhaps the world’s worst liar. It was not long after his return, and Sherlock had said something callous about trust issues, which sent John off on a pacing rant about being lied to by everyone he cared about. 

Sherlock brought John up short by simply saying, “Irene Adler is alive.”

John had frozen, his mouth opening and closing slowly. “What?” he had managed. And then, “I mean...of course. Yes. I know that. She’s...in America.” 

Sherlock had stood then, looking down at John and bringing their height difference into stark relief. “Irene. Adler. Is. Alive,” he bit out.

John tried to hold his gaze but couldn’t. He looked down and said, “Why are you telling me this?” 

“You know why.” Sherlock’s eyes were boring into the top of John’s head.

John cleared his throat. “OK. Right. Sherlock, I’m sorry. I thought that it would be easier for you if... How long have you known?”

Sherlock turned away suddenly and said flippantly, “Known what?”

John sighed heavily. “That Irene is dead.”

Sherlock flopped onto the sofa. “I’ve never known that.”

John pursed his lips together and took several deep breaths through his nose. When he felt like he wouldn’t just start yelling he said, “Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but—”

“You cannot lie, John,” Sherlock stated frankly. “At least not to me. Although it’s difficult for me to imagine how you could effectively lie to anyone. Your voice. Your face. It’s all wrong.”

John’s brows were properly knit now. “My face?”

“You know that Irene is dead. I know that she is alive,” Sherlock continued. “I know that because she is alive, not because you told me she is alive. When you told me she was alive, you told me she was dead even though you could not have known you were telling me the truth because you most certainly were not. Except you were.”

“What?” John asked, very flustered now. This must be what going mad felt like.

Sherlock sat up on the sofa and looked at John again. “Irene was never dead. I helped her fake her beheading, but that’s not important.”

“Not important,” John mumbled.

“No! What’s important is that you are a terrible liar, and you should never do it! Your only chance of success in this arena, a slight chance at that, is omitting truth. Lying...is just not your area, John.”

John nodded slowly, sinking into his armchair. “Right. Well then.”

“Now,” said Sherlock, “I suggest you stop thinking about all of this immediately. I’d rather Mycroft didn’t find out.”

 

The conversation comes back to John as he looks at Sherlock. He couldn’t lie. As much as he might like to try the omitting the truth gamble, just to make Sherlock stop looking at him like this, it doesn’t seem like the time for that. No lies. Not now. 

“You’re already doing it, Sherlock. You’ve already done it,” John says gently. “The pressure will slow some of the bleeding.” He takes a few shallow breaths and continues, “The lung is going to keep bleeding into the chest cavity. The tube will give the blood a way to escape so the other one shouldn’t collapse again, so don’t block the tube.”

“But...” Sherlock says softly.

John nods slightly. “But surgery is the only way to stop it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flit over the empty street again, then look upward, scanning the rooftops and overcast night sky. “Mycroft’s people are coming, John. You will be in hospital soon. You can wait.” Another command.

“Yeah,” says John. “Yeah, I can wait. I’m good at waiting. Lots of practice, me.”

Sherlock looks back at John, unsure of what to make of that. 

John smiles to be reassuring, but it takes a lot of effort. So does talking. And breathing. He is so tired now. It’s not the crushing sleepiness of 36-hour field unit shifts or the heavy fatigue of depression. It’s light. He feels as though he could just float away. Wouldn’t it be lovely to just rest his eyes for a moment?

“Sherlock, I want to tell you something.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.”

John squints at him. “No?”

“No,” Sherlock repeats. “You’re not saying goodbye. I won’t let you.”

“I wasn’t...” John starts, then stops. He begins again. “I want to say thank you.”

Sherlock looks startled. “You don’t need to thank me. You would have done the same for me.” He looks down at the tube leading from John’s chest, now leaking blood freely. He swallows hard.

“Not the tube, Sherlock,” John says, “Although ta for that. And yes, I would have done that for you. I’m rather good at them...” John’s voice trails off. 

Another few shallow breaths before he can start again. “What I mean is...thank you for letting me into your world. Being a part of it... A part of...us...it’s the only thing, really. The only thing that has ever mattered. So, thank you.” 

John can’t keep his eyes open any longer. He will just rest them for a tic. That will be fine. 

“John, don’t.” Sherlock’s voice is thick. “Open your eyes.”

“OK,” John murmurs agreeably, but his eyes remain shut.

“John, stay here,” Sherlock pleads, “Stay here with me.”

“I will,” he murmurs, softer now.

“Please, John. Don’t go. Please.”

“Where would I go?” John asks and floats away into the blackness.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft Holmes arrives on the scene just minutes after the paramedics and other first responders. His first responders, that is. He doesn’t want Lestrade’s team here. Not yet. Not until he knows what is going on. He spots Sgt. Greyson giving orders to another agent and strides over to him quickly while still maintaining a measured pace in an effort to mask his growing concern. Greyson acknowledges Mycroft and dismisses the other agent with a single nod.

“What is the situation, Sergeant?” Mycroft asks while scanning the chaotic mob. He doesn’t see his brother or John in the crowd. Neither can he pick their voices out of the din. Sherlock should be berating someone by now.

“Still assessing, sir,” Greyson replies. “There’s one John Doe. DOA,” he indicates a place beyond the crowd that Mycroft cannot see. “It appears Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were attacked by at least one assailant. We are working to secure the area, sir.”

Mycroft glances up to the roof ledges of the adjacent buildings. A helicopter searchlight is sweeping over the rooftops, making the light levels on the tiny street between the council houses even more erratic. No doubt the stairwells and empty apartments are being scoured for snipers by the ops team at this very moment. He feels that familiar, painful pressure build behind his eyes and fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Since Sherlock’s dramatic death the previous year and his miraculous resurrection eight months later, Mycroft had been working harder than ever to ensure Sherlock and John’s safety as they sought to eliminate the last strands of Moriarty’s criminal network. He told himself that at least this way they had each other to depend on. In some small way that justified the not-inconsiderable fortune he was spending to keep Baker Street under constant, if unobtrusive, guard. Sadly, this was not Baker Street.

“Where are they?” Mycroft asks, slightly softer than he would have liked.

Before Greyson can answer, sirens blare to life, deafening in the claustrophobic street. The unmarked vehicle that doubles as an ambulance and a portable munitions store leaves the tiny street and turns onto the broader main road, building up speed quickly.

Mycroft catches sight of his brother standing alone, without coat or suit jacket, in the vehicle’s wake. He rushes to him. Sherlock is staring at where the ambulance has disappeared around the corner, his eyes strangely vacant, his hands and shirt covered in blood. “Sherlock!” Mycroft gasps, relief and dread threatening to overtake him at once, “What happened?”

Sherlock doesn’t even look at Mycroft, his eyes fixed toward the fading sound of the sirens. “It’s over,” Sherlock finally responds. It is little more than a whisper. “It’s over .”

Mycroft is stunned. What does Sherlock mean? Surely not...

Mycroft’s gaze follows his younger brother’s, piecing together the puzzle and not willing to believe the picture that is forming. This isn’t right. “Why aren’t you riding with him? They had orders to allow that.”

Sherlock’s voice is still distant, dazed. “I was. I was with him, but he...stopped breathing. They said I was in the way.”

Mycroft is at a rare loss for words. “Sherlock, I...”

Sherlock whirls toward him as if only just realizing who is beside him. “Where were you?” he snarls. “Where the hell were you?”

“They arrived nine minutes after you called me. I was here in eleven. Do you have any idea how improbable that sort of response time is? Especially when one is sending ‘everything’?” Mycroft says this calmly, more than familiar with being on the wrong end of Sherlock’s ire.

“Of course I do,” Sherlock hisses. He looks back toward the ambulance’s wake. His voice is softer but contains no less fire as he says, “If he dies alone I will never forgive you.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft replies. “Although we both know it won’t be me who requires it.” He turns away, toward his car. “Come. We will meet them there.”

He starts walking to the black sedan trusting that Sherlock will follow. His mobile rings and he knows before his confirming glance at the caller identification who it will be.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft says. “I’m sure you are curious about the commotion at Ferrier Estate.”

“Yeah, a bit,” Lestrade says on the other end. “What the hell is going on over there?”

“I apologize. There wasn’t time for a courtesy call. It will all be handled, Inspector,” Mycroft tells him coolly.

“What will be handled? You’ve got a bloody helicopter over there!”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it? What’s happened now?” Lestrade manages to sound both annoyed and worried in equal measure.

“Yes, it was,” Mycroft confirms. Mycroft quickly looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, who is following but appears to be listening to an animated conversation in his own head, one where he disagrees with all of the speakers. He’s shaking his head side to side in quick jerks. Mycroft is normally embarrassed when his brother behaves like a lunatic, but tonight he only feels concern.

They arrive at the car and Mycroft opens the rear door for Sherlock, who gets in without protest. Mycroft shuts the door and realizes he hasn’t been listening to what Lestrade has been saying. He stands at the boot of the sedan and says, “I’m sorry, Inspector?”

“Tell me what’s happened! Are they all right?”

“Not exactly. No. It’s gotten rather complicated.” Which is the only way Mycroft can think to phrase _John is dying, and I might be losing my brother before my very eyes. Again._

Lestrade is silent on his end for a long beat. Then, “What can I do?”

“Thank you, there’s nothing you can—” Mycroft pauses, looking at the slumped shoulders of his brother’s silhouette through the car window.

Mycroft takes a deep breath. He’s never been skilled in this area.

He turns away from the car, watching as his tiny, efficient army swarms the abandoned council houses and grounds, maps the scene, photographs the blood spatter, collects the samples, bags the body.

He takes another breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Actually, Greg,” Mycroft says quietly, “It would be good if you could meet us at the hospital.”


	8. Chapter 8

Lestrade jogs through the hospital corridors, his badge allowing him to pass by security points and nursing stations with only the briefest of interruptions to his pace. He makes his way to the Critical Care Unit’s family waiting room, a smaller room off the main waiting lounge. It has a door, and, therefore, a measure of privacy. It was where the doctors delivered bad news and where Lestrade was often required to awkwardly intrude upon grief with his “Sorry for your loss. I know this is a difficult time, but I need to ask you a few questions...” 

Lestrade hopes this time the room has been Mycroft’s assumed privilege and not the doctor’s somber request.

He reaches the closed door of the family waiting room and knocks softly. There’s no response, so he opens the door a crack and sticks his head in. 

Sherlock is sitting hunched over on the utilitarian sofa, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing, eerily still. Lestrade can see his shirt and hands are covered in blood. On the cushion beside him is a folded blue scrub top, no doubt intended to replace the bloody shirt he is currently wearing. Whoever offered it must not know Sherlock at all. 

Mycroft is in the chair facing the vacant end of the sofa. The brothers are sitting as far as possible from each other in the tiny room. Mycroft looks to the door, and when Lestrade raises his eyebrows in question Mycroft answers with a slight shake of the head. He rises and, with a quick glance behind him to Sherlock, indicates with a nod that they should speak outside the room. Sherlock gives no acknowledgment either of Lestrade’s appearance or their exit.

Mycroft leads them to a small alcove opposite a supply closet and within sight of the waiting room. “He’s in surgery,” Mycroft says before Lestrade has a chance to ask anything.

“Is he going to be all right?” 

“It’s too soon to tell, apparently,” Mycroft says in a deceptively dispassionate voice. “The doctors say there is internal bleeding, and he has already lost a great deal of blood.”

“Jesus, Mycroft, what the hell happened?” 

Mycroft looks at his shoes for a moment before beginning the tale. “Sherlock located a hidden drop point of Moriarty’s at the Ferrier Estate. He and John went to retrieve it and were ambushed.” He meets Lestrade’s gaze as he continues, “Sherlock managed to neutralize the assailant, but not, unfortunately, before John was stabbed through the chest.”

“What? Oh, God,” Lestrade gasps. He turns away from Mycroft and rubs a hand over his face. He turns back. “Wait. ‘Neutralized the assailant.’ You mean Sherlock killed someone?”

“Yes, Sherlock killed him,” Mycroft looks pointedly at Lestrade. “And despite what you may be thinking right now, Inspector, this is absolutely no concern of yours.” 

Lestrade doesn’t break the gaze, but he knows from experience that there would be no use arguing this matter. One doesn’t pull rank with Mycroft Holmes. There is no rank to pull. Mycroft Holmes exists outside the system. Or he is the system, if Sherlock is to be believed. 

“Yeah, right,” Lestrade says after several long seconds. “Never happened, is that it? The assailant never existed and your brother was never there and John Watson, what? Slipped? Impaled himself while taking in the air at an abandoned council estate known to be rife with gang activity? How, exactly, am I supposed to explain this away?”

“You’re not,” Mycroft tells him icily. “As I said, this is no concern of yours. Your office will have no involvement. I suggest, Inspector, that you do the smart thing and accept this reality as the gift it is, and not, as my brother is so fond of doing, view it as a challenge. That would not end well for you.”

Lestrade takes a few deep breaths through his nose, still refusing to break Mycroft’s gaze. He doesn’t particularly care for threats, especially ones as polite and deadly serious as these. 

“Is this why you brought me here?” Lestrade finally asks. “Sherlock is sitting alone in that room, covered in his best friend’s blood, while John fights for his life on the table, and you bring me out here to ensure I behave?” 

Mycroft has the good grace to look slightly ashamed. His eyes go to the closed door of the tiny waiting room. “No. No, of course not. I apologize. This conversation could have waited until later.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t need to have it like that anyway,” says Lestrade, backing off. “If I’m out of it, I’m out of it. I know how this works.” He tries a weak laugh, “I hate paperwork anyway.”

“I’m sorry, Greg.”

Lestrade gives Mycroft a brief smile to let him know the apology is accepted. “Why did you want me here?”

“I didn’t think he should be alone. Not now,” Mycroft answers.

“Are you leaving?” Lestrade is startled.

“Of course not!” Mycroft replies. “I simply meant I thought he should be with someone he...likes.”

“Oh,” says Lestrade, turning back to look at the waiting room door himself. He thinks about the implications of that. “Couldn’t we ask Mrs. Hudson to come? She’s very maternal and—” Lestrade turns back and Mycroft’s expression kills the sentence in his mouth. 

“Um, maybe not,” Lestrade fumbles. Another thought occurs to him. “Has anyone contacted her? Does she know about John?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Mycroft supplies.

“Well, shouldn’t we tell her?”

“What would you have me tell her?”

Lestrade doesn’t have an answer.

“Best to let her have another peaceful night’s sleep, wouldn’t you agree?” Mycroft says and walks back to the waiting room.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock has not moved in the time they have been gone. Mycroft reoccupies the chair he had vacated, crossing his legs at the knee and placing his hands on the wooden armrests. Lestrade waits a moment and then sits at the other end of Sherlock’s sofa, leaving the folded scrub top between them. 

Lestrade looks at Sherlock, then at Mycroft. Back to Sherlock. Back to Mycroft. 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows as if to say, Your move, Inspector.

Fantastic. 

Despite years of witnessing some of the foulest things people could do to one another, of being there when families heard the worst, of sometimes delivering that terrible news himself, Lestrade has absolutely no idea what to do right now.

What could he possibly say to Sherlock Holmes that would make this situation any better? Hell, what could he say that wouldn’t just make things worse? It would probably be best if he didn’t speak at all, but it was clear from Mycroft’s expression that he expected Lestrade to do or say something. That’s why he had asked him here. 

Lestrade clears his throat, willing himself to say something comforting and appropriate, when Sherlock speaks.

“So Mycroft thinks I need my handler here, I see.” Sherlock’s voice is just audible. He remains still, only his lips moving. The words are barbed but there is no heat behind them.

Lestrade looks back to Mycroft for a hint on how to proceed, but Mycroft is staring resolutely at the knuckles of his right hand.

“Sherlock...” Lestrade begins. What? What should he say? He settles for the truth. “I wanted to come.”

Sherlock makes a derisive noise through his nose.

“Look, I...” Lestrade looks to the ceiling and sighs. This conversation has barely begun and it’s already a field of landmines. Might as well not bother with the calculated dance of politeness and double meanings. That was more Mycroft’s area anyway. 

The direct approach then. 

He turns back to Sherlock.

“What do you need?” Lestrade asks simply.

Sherlock’s head whips to face him so quickly that Lestrade nearly jumps. Sherlock is staring at him with his mouth slightly open as if he has never seen Lestrade before. Lestrade feels fear suddenly, and he’s not sure if that is his own shock or Sherlock’s. It’s clear that some switch has just been thrown in that impossible mind. Whatever Lestrade should have said just then, that, apparently, was not it.

“Why did you say that?” Sherlock asks, his gaze penetrating.

Before Lestrade can coax his brain to create thoughts again, there is a soft knock at the waiting room door and a young internist sticks his head in the room. He enters without being invited in. 

The doctor, who looks like he only started shaving a few years ago, has put on a white lab coat over his scrubs. The blood is still visible beneath the coat, but muted. An embroidered nametag on the coat’s lapel identifies him as Dr. Ramesh Patel.

Sherlock, Mycroft, and Lestrade all stand.

“I wanted to give you an update on Dr. Watson’s condition,” Dr. Patel begins. “We were able to stop the bleeding in the chest cavity and save the lung. We’re hopeful that if he pulls through, he will regain use of it.”

Sherlock inhales sharply.

Dr. Patel must be new to the delivering bad news business, Lestrade thinks. Only a rookie would try to make information like this palatable by wrapping the bad news in good.

“Pulls through?” Lestrade prompts when Dr. Patel fails to say more.

The young doctor squirms slightly. He tries to steady himself by making professional eye contact with Sherlock and Mycroft, but quickly settles on speaking directly to Lestrade. “Dr. Watson went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance and then again during surgery,” Dr. Patel says quickly.

Sherlock sits down on the sofa.

“Twice?” Lestrade says in disbelief.

The doctor clears his throat. “Yes. We managed to start his heart again, but I’m afraid the arrhythmia is proving to be persistent and severe.” Dr. Patel shrugs, the gesture making him look even younger. “The trauma may have been too great. We’ll just have to wait and see.” He shrugs again. “I’m sorry.”

“He’s sorry!” Sherlock hisses under his breath. 

Dr. Patel looks at Sherlock with alarm.

Mycroft steps in. “Thank you, Doctor,” he says, opening the door. “When will Dr. Watson be permitted visitors?”

“Not until he’s stable, I’m afraid,” says Dr. Patel, standing in the doorway. He shoots a nervous glance toward a woman in a suit standing with a clipboard in the main waiting room. The woman takes a step toward them. 

Dr. Patel turns back to Mycroft. “Mr. Holmes, I hope you don’t mind, but it’s standard procedure in situations like this. I’ve asked Ms. Cartwright to come speak with you.”

Mycroft stiffens. The woman walks into the small room, her sensible heels clicking on the linoleum.

“I’m sorry we have to meet under such difficult circumstances,” she announces. “My name is Lisa Cartwright. I’m with the Patient Advocacy and Legal Services Office. I’m here to discuss John Watson’s living will.”


	10. Chapter 10

Ms. Cartwright sits in Mycroft’s chair and looks at the cover sheet on her clipboard. Mycroft opens his mouth to protest but his manners get the better of him. He lowers himself stiffly into the identical chair opposite Sherlock. 

Lestrade remains standing, looking from the doctor to Ms. Cartwright to the Holmeses. Dr. Patel mumbles another apology and leaves the waiting room, shutting the door behind him. 

Lestrade sits back down on the sofa, giving Sherlock a quick glance. Sherlock is staring so intensely at Ms. Cartwright, Lestrade is surprised her head hasn’t exploded all over the pastel walls. Even more incredibly, Cartwright doesn’t seem to even notice Sherlock’s gaze. 

She flips a few pages over on the clipboard, runs a manicured finger down the form, then flips the stack back over. She looks up, her face neutrally solemn. 

“Now,” she says. “I was able to find Dr. Watson’s records in the Veteran’s Affairs database. It looks like the last advance directive he has on file was from...” She looks at the sheet again. “2005. Before he left for his first tour of duty.” 

She sets the clipboard on the metal end table next to her chair and leans forward, folding her hands. “What would be helpful for his Care Team to know is if he had a more recent will.” She looks at the men expectantly. 

No one moves. 

Sherlock’s stare is unwavering. 

Cartwright seems to notice the scrutiny for the first time, and her professional facade falters slightly. She picks up the clipboard again. “But using this will is perfectly all right. It’s actually rather lucky that we have one at all, really. You would be surprised at how many people don’t. Everyone thinks they have all the time in the world. Of course, being a doctor, in the army no less, I suppose Dr. Watson was more aware than most how quickly the unexpected can happen—”

“What does it say?” Lestrade interrupts the babbling because Sherlock looks like he’s about done staring and is about to move on to something else. What that might be, Lestrade would rather not find out just yet.

“Oh, yes.” Cartwright flips some pages again. “It’s fairly standard, really.” She points to a paragraph at the bottom of a form and hands the clipboard to Lestrade. 

Lestrade reads aloud, “I, John H. Watson, being of sound mind, declare that if I suffer an irreversible illness, disease, condition, or I become unconscious and, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, I will not regain consciousness, and the likely burdens of treatment would outweigh the expected benefits, I direct that life-sustaining measures be withheld or discontinued.” 

“Idiot!” shouts Sherlock.

Cartwright gasps and grabs the clipboard back from Lestrade, clutching it to her chest like a shield. “I...I understand that these things can be upsetting to hear, sir, but that is no reason to insult me.”

Sherlock isn’t listening. He is up and pacing the length of the waiting room, barely avoiding everyone’s legs with each pass. 

“Why? Why would he do this?” Sherlock shakes his head.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says.

“What is a reasonable degree of medical certainty anyway?” Sherlock continues. “There’s nothing reasonable about this! Nothing! John should know better than anyone how often doctors get it wrong!”

“Sherlock, please,” Lestrade tries.

“And what could possibly outweigh the benefit of John not being dead?” Sherlock is yelling now. He stops his pacing and snarls at Cartwright, “Tell me!”

Cartwright’s eyes fill with tears. She shakes her head helplessly. 

“Sherlock! Control yourself!” Mycroft raises his voice.

Surprisingly, Sherlock does. He pulls himself up then sits back on the sofa, looking at the floor, his shoulders sagging once again in defeat.

“Why would he do this? It doesn’t allow for any contingencies or complexities or discoveries or...me,” Sherlock says to the floor. “It doesn’t allow for me.”

There is a long silence in the waiting room. 

Mycroft offers Cartwright a handkerchief and she dabs her eyes with it, smudging the fine silk with mascara.

“Well,” says Cartwright, trying to compose herself. “A patient’s family does have a say in matters such as this. Although we encourage family to acknowledge advance directives whenever possible. It helps with closure.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap up to Cartwright and she freezes. 

“Ah, who is his next of kin?” she asks in an effort to recover the control of the conversation.

“That would be his sister,” begins Mycroft as Lestrade winces. No one has thought of Harry in this mess.

“No,” says Sherlock in a clear voice. “I am.”

Mycroft and Lestrade look at him incredulously. 

Sherlock straightens on the sofa and looks directly at Mycroft. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It was very spontaneous. You know John. We married last month.”


	11. Chapter 11

Lestrade’s jaw drops. 

Mycroft maintains a more subtle, knitted brow.

Sherlock directs his gaze to Cartwright. “I imagine you’ll need to see evidence of our civil partnership?”

“That’s not necessary just yet,” Cartwright begins.

“Of course you do. Shouldn’t take my word for it,” Sherlock cuts her off. 

He turns back to Mycroft while still addressing Cartwright. “My brother will be happy to send someone to our flat to fetch the certificate. Won’t you, Mycroft? It’s right next to the papers that designate me as John’s health care proxy. I suppose we should bring those as well. I’m sure people as resourceful and fast as yours will have no trouble finding them.”

Mycroft stares back at Sherlock for several long seconds. He finally breaks the stalemate by taking a deep breath and saying, “Yes, of course.” He stands and adjusts his jacket, giving a tight smile to Cartwright. “I’ll just need to make a phone call. Excuse me, won’t you?” he says primly and exits the waiting room.

Cartwright begins to fidget with the papers on her clipboard. “Mr. Holmes, I really should be going. Have your brother send your license to my office and I’ll put it in Dr. Watson’s file. We can have another meeting soon if that proves necessary to discuss...options.” 

She stands and, after a moment’s hesitation, offers her hand to Sherlock before immediately withdrawing it when Sherlock extends his blood encrusted hand to meet hers. She gasps and Sherlock’s mouth twitches slightly, his eyes mean.

Lestrade attempts to salvage the situation by shaking her hand in both of his. “Thank you,” he tells her, hoping he sounds earnest. “We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”

“Likewise,” Cartwright mumbles and leaves the waiting room. She nearly bumps into Mycroft who has just opened the door. She gives a flustered apology and then walks away as quickly as her heels allow.

Mycroft watches her leave while replacing his mobile in his jacket pocket. He shuts the door and looks at Sherlock, eyes steady and cold.

Sherlock returns his gaze, jaw set.

“What is going on?” Lestrade asks when he can’t take the tension anymore. “Mycroft, I know this is a shock, I mean, I can’t really wrap my head around it either, but, come on! We all had our suspicions. Are you really this upset with Sherlock for getting married and not telling you?”

Both the Holmeses end the staring contest by simultaneously rolling their eyes and sighing in disgust.

“What?” says Lestrade angrily.

Sherlock gives him a pitying look. “We’re not married.”

“Not so,” says Mycroft softly to Sherlock. “You weren’t married. In about 15 minutes, Ms. Cartwright will get a fax that says otherwise.” He smiles thinly and adds, “Best wishes, brother.”

“So, you and John didn’t get a secret marriage?” Lestrade asks Sherlock.

“Oh, I’d say it was rather secret,” interjects Mycroft. “Only one of the grooms knows about it.”

“Shut up!” hisses Sherlock. “I had to do something! John has that awful living will that practically begs the doctors to kill him if he so much as sneezes, and without any regard as to how that would affect me.”

“In fairness to John, he did write that four years before he even met you,” offers Lestrade.

Sherlock continues on as if he hasn’t heard that. “And then that woman suggests we consult John’s alcoholic sister on how best to care for him. What was I supposed to do? Abandon him to a fate brought on by his own lack of foresight and his willingness to have drunken relatives? Please.” 

Sherlock ruffles his hair violently and sits back down on the sofa.

Lestrade doesn’t quite know where the opening of this logic hedge maze might be. He tries anyway. “But, Sherlock, a fake civil partnership so you can be his health care proxy?”

“It’s not fake anymore,” says Mycroft helpfully. 

“It doesn’t matter! We can deal with that later. I did what I had to do to save John. As always.” 

Mycroft sighs heavily. “No one can argue with that, Sherlock. In one night you’ve managed to get John skewered, shove a car engine into his chest, and then marry him without his consent in order to override his final wishes. Where would he be without you?”


	12. Chapter 12

A tense silence encases the tiny waiting room as the hours pass. A plump nurse approaching retirement age comes in at one point, gently suggesting the trio head home for some rest. She promises to phone them as soon as John is permitted visitors. Sherlock shoots her his most withering glare and she shrugs, unfazed, returning a few minutes later with three small blankets. 

Sherlock withdraws into himself again, staring at the floor. Mycroft becomes immersed in his BlackBerry, occasionally leaving the room to make or take a phone call. Lestrade eventually stops trying to draw either of them into conversation, crossing his arms over his chest and putting his head back to rest his eyes. Within moments he begins snoring softly.

It is after dawn when the plump nurse returns, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Lestrade. “The doctors say he can have a brief visit,” she says. Sherlock and Mycroft both rise. “Just one person for now, I’m afraid. We need to keep the atmosphere calm for him, understand?” Her tone is both tender and commanding. 

Mycroft nods and sits back down as Sherlock leaves with the nurse. He is about to return to his BlackBerry when Lestrade’s snore catches in his throat and he shifts against the coarse material of the sofa cushions. Mycroft regards him for a moment and then efficiently unfolds a blanket, draping it over the sleeping inspector before retaking the seat opposite him.

Sherlock follows the nurse through a series of double doors before she stops outside of room 33F. The door is covered with laminated signs. “Caution: Oxygen in Use” with a cartoon drawing of a cigarette igniting an explosion. “Caution: Patient PPO” with cartoon drawings of various food and beverages crossed out to indicate their forbidden nature. “Caution: Sterile Environment. Protective Gear Required” with a cartoon of a face mask and gloves. 

The nurse points to a shelf just beside the door. “Dr. Watson is especially at risk for infection now. Anyone who enters the room must wear these.” 

She pulls a pair of gloves from a box and indicates that Sherlock should do the same. She offers to help him with the disposable gown and Sherlock doesn’t object, merely turns around so she can tie up the back. She puts on a face mask and nods to the box. Sherlock awkwardly secures one behind his ears and nods back at the nurse to show her he is ready.

“I want to let you know what you will see when we get in there,” the nurse says, placing herself between the door and Sherlock. Sherlock tries to stifle an irritated sigh. 

The nurse ignores that and continues, “Dr. Watson’s been placed in a medically induced coma. It’s the safest way to promote the healing he needs right now. You’ll see he has an IV in each arm, a chest tube, and he has been intubated.” Sherlock’s eyes widen at that. “A ventilator is helping him breathe. As long as he requires intubation he’ll be kept in the coma. It’s more comfortable for him that way.” 

“But he will wake up?” Sherlock asks, voice slightly muffled through the mask.

“It’s impossible to say,” the nurse says sympathetically. “But he’s already pulled through this far. He seems strong.”

“He’s the strongest man I know,” says Sherlock without a hint of sentimentality.

The nurse gives him a small, reassuring smile, cheeks rising beneath her mask. “Ready?” she asks. Sherlock looks at the door, closes his eyes briefly, and nods again. 

John looks impossibly small in the nest of tubes and wires. IV poles stand on either side of his bed, whole blood dripping into one arm and a clear liquid into the other. Two more bags are suspended from the middle of the bed: one to catch the fluid being drawn out of his chest by the thoracostomy tube, and the other for urine. Thick tape holds the tube coming from his mouth in place. The ventilator beside the bed labors steadily and noisily, nearly drowning out the myriad of beeps and blips coming from the heart monitor and the IV machines. 

John’s eyes have been taped shut, and it is this detail that nearly pushes Sherlock into a frenzied rage of tearing the invading tubes and wires from him and killing with his bare hands anyone who dares to touch John again. 

The nurse, checking John’s vitals and machine readouts while making notations in a chart, notices Sherlock’s breath growing ragged beneath his mask. She stops and stands next to him for a moment. She looks from Sherlock to John. 

“He can still hear you, you know,” she says.

“What?”

“John can hear you. You should talk to him.”

Sherlock swallows hard. “The studies to which I assume you are referring suggesting that patients can hear and comprehend speech while in a comatose state rely on anecdotal evidence and are, therefore, flawed.” He swallows again. “Inconclusive at best.”

“Maybe,” the nurse agrees and walks to the door.

“But maybe he can hear you,” she says. “I’ll be back soon.”

Alone in the room, Sherlock skirts the bed cautiously, moving to the side opposite the noisy ventilator. There is a hard plastic chair in the corner and Sherlock pulls it closer to John’s bed, sinking into it slowly. 

He watches John for several long minutes, willing there to be some movement, some sign that John is aware of his presence. There is only the artificially slow, steady rise and fall of John’s chest as the ventilator forces air into his lungs and out again.

“John,” Sherlock tries but it comes out as a thready whisper. He looks at his own tightly folded hands beneath his chin and clears his throat. He looks back up. “John,” he says again, and his voice is clearer, louder.

A deep breath. 

“John, I think it’s only right you should know that I had Mycroft marry us.”

A pause.

“So, as your husband, I can override your idiotic advance directives. I will be making all of your health care and legal decisions from now on.”

A pause.

“I expect you’ll be very cross about this. So, you had best wake up and tell me off.”

Another pause. Sherlock looks at his hands again.

“Please, John.”

Sherlock unlaces his fingers and moves his left hand toward John, suddenly needing to feel for himself that his flesh is warm and living. His hand hovers over John’s, unsure how to touch him. The back of his hand is swollen and bruising from the surgical IV sites. Fat wads of gauze and tape cover two of the inserted needles. Sherlock settles for placing his hand beside John’s, their fingertips touching.

“Sometimes I think your life is a series of idiotic choices, John. Volunteering to go to war. Taking me as a flatmate. Becoming my friend. Everything you do seems to put you in death’s path.” Sherlock’s voice catches slightly. “Why do you have to be so noble? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Sherlock adjusts his hand, moving the pads of his fingertips to rest lightly on John’s fingernails.

“You should know that I’m sorry. For everything. I did what I had to do to keep you safe, causing you considerable pain in the process, and still... This can’t all have been for nothing. It can’t.” 

Sherlock looks upward, tongue pressed between his teeth beneath his mask. “Please forgive me.”

He looks back to John’s face, obscured with tape and tubes. “Please forgive me, John, because I need you to stay. I don’t think I can do this without you. And even if I could find a way to manage alone, I don’t want to. Not again. Not anymore. So, I’m asking you to stay, John. Please. I’m asking even though being with me is undeniably dangerous. And I’m asking knowing that you will do it. You will stay. You always do as I ask.” He gives a sad chuckle. “You’re too loyal for your own good.”

Deciding it is finally safe to do so, Sherlock allows the tears to come, sliding down his cheeks and soaking into the seam of his face mask.

After allowing himself several minutes of this, he softly taps John’s fingertips with his own. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”

Sherlock turns his hand over and gently slides it, palm up, beneath John’s hand. 

There. 

Between their cupped palms there is the warmth he has been looking for. 

Sherlock’s throat is too tight for more speaking. Instead, he looks at their hands and wills his breaths to be slow and deep, matching John’s.


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft’s call comes precisely as the courier places the package on his desk. Lestrade fights the urge to look over his shoulder as Mycroft says without preamble, “Would you be so good as to take this to my brother? He will need it. I’m sorry I cannot do so myself. Too busy today, I’m afraid.” 

Lestrade refrains from mentioning that Mycroft has been “too busy” to return to the hospital at all after the night of John’s attack over a week ago. As soon as Sherlock had been permitted to see John, Mycroft had left. Lestrade suspected Mycroft simply did not want to deal with Sherlock in this state, but what did he know? To his credit, Mycroft was obviously well informed about every tiny shift in John’s condition. Maybe he really does have a diplomatic emergency that requires his near-constant attention right now. It’s not like the world stops turning because John Watson is in a coma. Although, for one Holmes brother it did.

“You sent a courier with a package for Sherlock to me so I could deliver it?” Lestrade asks, picking up the small parcel wrapped in brown packing paper and turning it over in his hands. “I am at work, you know. I also have a job,” he says, rising, putting on his coat, and tucking the package in a pocket.

Mycroft sniffs. “Don’t be difficult, Inspector. If he isn’t in John’s room, try the roof.”

“Wait. What?” Lestrade says, nearly shouting in surprise. Mycroft has already ended the call.

 

After nodding to the short, suited man reading the paper in a folding chair outside John’s door, Lestrade grabs a face mask and holds it up to his mouth as he sticks his head in the room. John’s still form and the cacophonous choir of machines are the only occupants.

Lestrade finds Sherlock pacing on the roof of the hospital. 

It’s a surprisingly bright morning for April in London, if brisk. The hospital grounds committee has taken some effort to make the hospital roof an inviting space. Weathered wooden benches are scattered about, facing different directions to allow for the illusion of privacy. Malnourished saplings are staked into cement troughs in a loose geometric pattern meant to offer a bit of shade and a hint of color without obstructing the view. Despite the hospital’s attempt to welcome patients and their visitors into the fresh air, Sherlock and Lestrade are alone.

Sherlock is pacing near the waist-high brick wall that surrounds the roof. He stops and turns to Lestrade as he approaches. 

“Let’s have it then,” says Sherlock, holding his hand out.

“What?” 

“The package Mycroft sent you here with.”

“How did you...? Sod it. I don’t want to know,” mumbles Lestrade. He fishes the parcel from his pocket and places it in Sherlock’s palm. “Here.”

“Oh, dear,” says Sherlock, wrapping his fingers around the package. “Big brother is concerned, isn’t he?”

Sherlock tears the paper from the package and deftly removes the plastic from the carton in one movement. He smacks the bottom of the carton on the heel of his palm three times and rips the top open, removing a cigarette and placing it between his lips. He holds the carton toward Lestrade and gives it a little shake. The filter of one cigarette rises slightly above its companions so Lestrade can easily pluck it out.

Lestrade looks at the carton and sighs. He pushes up his sleeve and rips off the nicotine patch, balling it up and sending into a nearby bin with a flick of his fingers . There goes another six weeks of quitting. Maybe it will stick one of these times.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches into a brief smile as Lestrade takes the cigarette. He pulls out a small lighter and ignites Lestrade’s cigarette and then his own, inhaling deeply.

“John is going to be furious about this,” Lestrade offers.

“I’m looking forward to it.” Sherlock says, blowing smoke into the chilly morning air.

“I have to say I’m surprised to find you up here.”

“I need to think. John’s room is too...noisy. He doesn’t mind. He’s used to it, my leaving to think,” says Sherlock defensively.

“No,” says Lestrade, “I mean I’m surprised to find you on a roof at all. I would have assumed...”

Sherlock’s expression of baffled judgment makes Lestrade trail off. How does he do that? How can he be confused and superior at the same time?

“Does nothing frighten you?” he asks Sherlock in exasperation.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock says, turning away from him to look over the wall. “Falling is nothing to fear if one takes a few precautions.”

Lestrade has no idea what to say to that.

They smoke in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock leaning on his forearms, looking toward the horizon as ash breaks off the tip of his cigarette and disappears off the edge of the building.

“It seems like ages ago now, but there was a time when the only thing I found frightening was boredom.” 

Lestrade is silent. This is the most forthright statement Sherlock has ever offered him. It’s new territory for them both.

“Now it seems there are a great many things that frighten me,” Sherlock continues. “Or just one, depending on how you look at it.”

“John,” says Lestrade.

Sherlock nods slightly. “Fear separates people from what they have come to rely on. It takes away their resources and leaves them with nothing but irrational emotion and regrettable decisions. Even me, it turns out. Losing John is the very definition of fear.”

Sherlock says all this calmly, looking out over the rooftops of neighboring buildings, effortlessly indexing the architectural styles and suspected build dates with business names and traffic patterns. 

Lestrade looks at the cigarette between his fingers, wondering at the mission Mycroft sent him on. 

“He’s not getting better, is he?” Lestrade asks.

“No,” says Sherlock and hops agilely onto the roof wall. He sits on the roof ledge, legs dangling.

Lestrade thinks he might stop breathing. “Jesus! Be careful!” he shouts before he can stop himself.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pats the ledge next to him. “If you’re worried I’m going to jump, perhaps you should get up here with me, Inspector.”

“You are the most infuriating man on the planet, you know that?” Lestrade says and climbs onto the wall next to Sherlock, but faces toward the interior patio. He figures he can tackle them both back onto the roof should it come to that.

“So I’ve been told,” says Sherlock. “No. John isn’t getting better. He isn’t, in point of fact, getting worse, either. Since being put on the ventilator there has been no discernible change in his condition whatsoever. But, if he stays intubated much longer, the chances of him ever being able to breathe without it diminish significantly.”

“What does that mean?” Lestrade asks.

“It means I have to decide whether to turn off the ventilator.” Sherlock sighs. “It’s possible that John might start breathing on his own without it. It’s also possible that he will stop breathing entirely.”

“You could turn it back on in that case, right?”

“Yes. That would be an option,” says Sherlock. 

“But you don’t know if John would want that.”

“I think we moved outside the realm of what John wanted a long time ago.”

Lestrade looks at the skinny trees braving the wind, London smog, and concrete encasement to survive on a lonely hospital rooftop. He wonders if patients who come up here find their presence hopeful or just depressing.

“What are you going to do?” asks Lestrade.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says after a moment.

“When do you have to decide?”

“Now,” says Sherlock and pivots on the wall, swinging his legs toward the interior. He jumps off and tucks the carton of cigarettes into his coat pocket. He turns toward the door to the stairwell. “Come on, they’ll be waiting for me.”

Lestrade hops off the wall, feeling the jolt in his knees and ankles. He follows behind Sherlock as they take the stairs to John’s floor. Sherlock swipes a hospital ID badge that Lestrade is quite certain he has no legitimate claim to and lets them both onto the floor.

Sherlock keeps a measured pace going past the nurses’ station, trying to buy time. All the patient call bells seem to be going off at once judging from the trill binging at the station. Every nurse on duty must be in patients’ rooms answering the summons.

“Sherlock, do you want someone else here?” Lestrade asks as they turn onto John’s corridor. “I’m sure Mycroft would come, or Mrs. Hudson... Hey!” Lestrade yells as Sherlock takes off at a sprint.

A second later he notices the empty chair beside John’s door and breaks into a run himself. 

The sound of alarms is deafening as Sherlock throws open the door. Severed tubes and wires hang between the shrieking machines, leaking onto the bed or twitching weakly.

John is gone.


	14. Chapter 14

“No!” Sherlock screams. “No! No!”   
  
Lestrade’s mouth opens and closes in shock. Sherlock whirls toward him, shouting, “Lock it down! They have to lock the hospital down! Now! Go!”  
  
Lestrade runs from the room, pulling his mobile from his jacket pocket.  
  
Sherlock turns back to the bed. Its emptiness is bright, like looking at the sun.   
  
For a long, terrifying moment his mind can only produce a single thought.

  
_John is gone. John is gone. John is gone._  
  
 _He is gone._  
  
 _Gone._  
  
 _Gone._  
  
 _Gone._  
  
“No!” he shouts to the empty room. No. He needs to think. John needs him to find him. Find him now. He needs to think. Think. Think!  
  
The sensors on John’s machines continue to shriek incessantly. Each blaringalarm screaming, “Gone! Gone! Gone!”  
  
Sherlock lunges at the ventilator and shoves it with all his might. It crashes to the floor, pulling the plugs from the wall and taking an IV pole with it. He turns to the heart monitor, grabbing its thick cords in both hands and tearing them from the wall as well.   
  
The room is suddenly silent, Sherlock’s harsh breathing ringing in his own ears. He swallows and straightens, attempting to breathe deeply, fighting against the panic that is pulling him down.   
  
Unacceptable. John needs him. He needs to _think_.   
  
He flashes to a time when John was incredulous at his apparent lack of pathos. _There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?_  
  
 _Will caring about them help save them?_  
  
 _Nope._  
  
 _Then I will continue not to make that mistake._  
  
But he has made that mistake. His emotions are blinding him, and John is paying the price.  
  
Right now.  
  
 _Gone._  
  
Sherlock sits on the end of the bed, fingers steepled at his lips, and closes his eyes.   
  
He takes his fear and surrounds it with stone walls, a dungeon in the recesses of his consciousness. He struggles with the heavy door but manages to slam it shut. He locks the door on his screaming fear and walks deliberately away, leaving it howling behind him. _John is gone!_ the fear shouts after him, but Sherlock is on the stairs, swiftly ascending to the clean, sharp space of his mind where he can _think._  
  
He opens his eyes and looks at the facts before him.  
  
John is not here. It is extremely unlikely that John has left of his own volition. Therefore, John has been taken. The captor or captors will be contending with John’s body, which is unconscious or dead already. In either case, the captor or captors will need to transport him somehow. Multiple perpetrators seem likely.  
  
Mycroft’s guard is not here. The guard was called away, or was taken as an additional captive, or was incapacitated and hidden, or is part of the plot to kidnap John. Even Mycroft should be able to find guards who will stay at their posts, and the burden of an additional hostage, especially one with combat training, makes the first two scenarios unlikely. The guard is either dead in a closet or part of the kidnapping plot.   
  
The hospital has some security measures in place besides the guard Mycroft hired. Hospital ID badges are required to gain entrance to patients’ floors or hospital staff need to admit visitors through the alarmed doors themselves. The captors may have badges. Perhaps they are dressed to look like staff. If not, then the staff recognized them, trusted them to be in John’s room.  
  
Sherlock tilts his head slightly, the last thought unnerving him. This means he is on the right track, in his experience.  
  
The hospital PA system crackles and a middle-aged female voice calmly says, “Dr. Black. Dr. Black you are needed in the Garden Conference Room. Dr. Black to the Garden Conference Room.”   
  
Sherlock closes his eyes again.   
  
There is no Garden Conference Room. Dr. Black is also St. Bart’s code for a possible armed assailant on the premises. The hospital is in lockdown. The staff is now aware the perpetrator could be anywhere in the hospital. Most of the patients will remain oblivious. Maybe all of them.   
  
Lestrade bursts back into the room shouting into his phone, “I don’t care what’s going on at Occupy St. Paul’s! You get those units down here now! I want a secure perimeter around the block in five minutes or it’s your badge!”  
  
He ends the call and shakes his head in disbelief. “No one’s getting in or out of the hospital. The nurses I could find say the call buttons went crazy about ten minutes ago. They’ve been running about like mad trying to answer them, although half the patients say they didn’t even press them in the first place. The nurses say they didn’t see anyone strange on the floor. They all swear the only people they’ve seen near John’s room all day are you, me, and the guard. But, if they were distracted...” Lestrade trails off with a helpless shrug.  
  
“You, me, and the guard” Sherlock repeats softly, standing to begin pacing a tiny circuit of the room.  
  
So, they hacked the call button system. Some technical proficiency at least. These are no amateurs.   
  
“Hospital security is searching the entire building in case they didn’t leave,” Lestrade says. “My people will be here soon to help.”  
  
Sherlock nods, only half listening. There’s something else. Something he can’t see.  
  
Lestrade’s phone chirps and he hits a button. Before he can say a word Mycroft says icily, “Tell my brother to answer his phone.”  
  
Sherlock can hear Mycroft’s clipped voice without Lestrade needing to repeat the message. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves his mobile. He had forgotten that he silenced it when he had gone up to the roof. No distractions.  
  
Sherlock hits the receive button as Mycroft’s call comes in a second later.   
  
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Sherlock?” Mycroft barks.  
  
Sherlock is stunned both by the words and the fury behind them. “John is gone,” is all he can think to say. “Taken.”  
  
“Are you insane?” Mycroft is nearly yelling.  
  
“I...” Sherlock starts. “John is gone, Mycroft. Gone. Why are you angry with _me_?”  
  
Mycroft says nothing, but the silence is electric. Finally he says stiffly, “Put me on with Lestrade.”   
  
Sherlock hands his mobile to Lestrade and turns away. He can’t handle Mycroft’s fraternal power games. Not now. Mycroft can go into the dungeon with the fear, to be dealt with later or possibly never. Just ignored for eternity. Would serve him right.  
  
Lestrade is speaking in a low tone to Mycroft in the corner of the room, shaking his head, and giving Sherlock nervous glances.   
  
Sherlock shakes his own head. No time for this! John needs him now! He should be out looking for John. Something tells him to stay in John’s room though. Something...  
  
He turns slowly, arms held slightly aloft and palms facing the room, as if he might be forced to defend against a very languid blow to the chest. He takes in the panorama of the room. Once. Twice.  
  
There!   
  
The clock above John’s bed. It’s not working anymore. The hands have been frozen in place since he entered the room. 11:16. And there is something else...  
  
Sherlock jumps on the bed and puts his face directly beneath the clock. Its dull industrial metal casing is broken by a fragmented prism, like a tiny fun house mirror fixed to the bottom with an epoxy. This is new.  
  
Sherlock looks into the prism from different angles. No matter where he sets his gaze, the mirrors always hold the image of the pillow. The empty pillow.   
  
“What you’re saying is impossible, Mycroft!” Lestrade shouts from the corner. “There’s some other explanation. Get over here and help us find it!” Lestrade punches the end button with his thumb.   
  
Lestrade starts to speak and Sherlock puts up a warning finger. Lestrade presses his mouth into a thin line.   
  
Why the mirrors on the clock? Why do that? What are they trying to tell him? Since both John and his skull are inconveniently absent, Lestrade will have to do.  
  
Sherlock jumps off the bed and points to the clock, turning to Lestrade. “There, do you see? The clock has been tampered with.”  
  
Lestrade doesn’t see but knows better than to say so right now. “Yeah, it’s stopped at quarter past eleven.”  
  
“No! Not ‘quarter past eleven,’” Sherlock snaps, mimicking Lestrade’s accent slightly. “It’s 11:16 _exactly_! At no point during my absence from John’s room was it 11:16. The clock has not merely stopped. It was maneuvered deliberately into exactly that position.”   
  
Lestrade’s brow furrows. “Why?”  
  
“Yes! Why?” shouts Sherlock. “It’s a message, clearly.”  
  
“A deadline maybe?” Lestrade suggests. “Or part of an address?”   
  
Sherlock is standing on the bed again, hands on the wall on either side of the clock, moving side to side rapidly while looking intently into the little prism of mirrors.  
  
Always John’s pillow at every angle. A hundred tiny frames of John’s absence.   
  
“What is that?” asks Lestrade, noticing the tiny mirrors.  
  
“More of the message,” Sherlock responds.   
  
11:16. John’s empty pillow. 11:16. John’s missing face. 11:16. John...  
  
“Oh!” Sherlock cries.   
  
He jumps off the bed and swiftly exits the room, shouting to Lestrade, “Where’s the chapel?”  
  
“The chapel?” Lestrade repeats, jogging behind Sherlock to keep up with him and his billowing coat. “It’s on the ground floor, I think.”  
  
“Come on!” calls Sherlock, breaking into a proper run now.   
  
The chapel is dim, the only light filtering through a stained glass rendition of the Crucifixion. Sherlock finds a stiff light switch on the wall and flips it on. The chapel is empty. He heads to the nearest pew and plucks a bible from the small wooden pocket containing a disintegrating hymnal, a Book of Common Prayer, and a crumpled envelope asking for donations for the Order of Lazarus.  
  
Sherlock furiously turns the delicate pages, ripping many in the process until he finds what he is seeking. A slender finger points to the passage as he reads aloud, “So Thomas, called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, ‘Let us also go, that we may die with him.’”  
  
He looks up at Lestrade who is already searching Sherlock’s face for answers. “John 11:16,” Sherlock murmurs.  
  
“What is it?” asks Lestrade.  
  
“It seems to be an invitation,” replies Sherlock.


	15. Chapter 15

John Watson dreams of the ocean at night, unnaturally still and utterly quiet. He floats on his back, unable to turn his head or move his limbs. If he is near land, he has no way of knowing it. His gaze is filled with the brilliant stars above him and a sliver of a crescent moon.  
  
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he hears from a long way off.  
  
 _Yes. Beautiful._  
  
Sometimes he sinks below the gentle waves, his face just inches from the surface and the air that lies beyond. When this happens, he panics. Willing his useless body to fight or thrash, desperate to breathe again. Then the panic ebbs away. Relief flows through him as he suddenly realizes he can breathe the water as easily as the air above. Either that or he doesn’t need to breathe at all.  
  
Eventually, he always rises to the surface again. Eyes, nose, and mouth cooled by the touch of light wind. Ears held in the peaceful, muffled silence of the water.  
  
Thoughts come to him slowly and leave just as languidly. It occasionally occurs to John that he should be worried about something, but he can’t remember what. He is calm. Content, even.  
  
Only sometimes does John realize that he is lonely here.  
  
Then he tries to open his mouth to call out, to say a name, but his mouth fills with water and no sound emerges.  
  
There are other times he knows he is not alone. Someone is near him, brushing his fingertips, his shoulder, his cheek.  
  
Someone says, “Please, John. I need you to stay.”  
  
 _Where would I go?_ he wonders.  
  
Time passes. Or doesn’t. It’s hard to tell. The stars remain constant, glittering above him, frozen and lovely in the black sky.  
  
Then the stars do change, become large and unfocused before snapping back to their previous hard light only to grow fuzzy again. Gusts of wind disturb the water, wetting John’s face and chilling him.  
  
The once gentle water holding him begins to swell and roll. John is carried helplessly with the growing waves as the ocean becomes agitated, tossing him high before sinking him deep below the surface. The water is cold and dark. John loses sight of the stars above the surface.  
  
He takes a breath and the pain is incredible, daggers of ice throughout his entire being. He tries to scream and begins to cough instead. He heaves and chokes, head pounding and lungs aching.  
  
“Good, John. You’re doing very well. I know it hurts, but I need you to keep fighting,” says someone nearby.  
  
The ocean is gone.  
  
The pain of breathing gradually lessens to a persistent burning in his chest and throat. John can hear a labored wheezing and realizes that it must be him making that sound.  
  
A hand is placed over his. “Good. Very good. It’s going to be all right now.”  
  
John opens his eyes, blinking them in an attempt to bring his surroundings into focus. It’s dim, but he can see a slender man sitting next to him. Gray coat collar raised dramatically to offset high cheekbones and dark curls.  
  
John smiles in relief. “Sherlock,” he says hoarsely. “Hi.”  
  
Sherlock smiles back and gives a little laugh. “Hello, John. Welcome back.”  
  
John works through several more hearty wheezes. “What happened?” he finally manages.  
  
Sherlock waves his hand as if swatting away an insect. “Oh, nothing terribly interesting or of consequence. You survived being stabbed and your stay in that wretched hospital, and that’s all that really matters right now.”  
  
John’s eyes begin to adjust to the low light of the room. He appears to be resting on a cot or pallet of some sort. Several coarse wool blankets cover him to his chest. There is a small metal table next to the cot, on it a squat kerosene lantern provides the only light for the room, which looks to be hewn out of granite and shored up in places with paving stone and brick. A yawning entranceway looms behind Sherlock, framing him in darkness that reflects none of the lantern’s light. John can only guess what may lie beyond it.  
  
“Where are we? Is this a cave?” he asks.  
  
“No,” Sherlock responds. “It’s somewhere safe. They won’t find you here.”  
  
John’s head pounds more insistently. “Who won’t find me, Sherlock? What is going on?”  
  
“I know you have questions, but I can’t explain it all right now. Everything will be clear soon enough.”  
  
John smiles again. “That’s new. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t want to explain something. Thinks I’ll figure it out on my own. I must have given you a good scare. How long was I out?”  
  
“Oh, John. Do you know how lucky you are?” Sherlock moves his chair closer to the head of the bed, bringing his face closer to the lantern light and brushing a strand of John’s hair softly off his forehead.  
  
John’s heart starts beating quickly, causing his already labored breathing to hitch.  
  
Something is wrong. Very wrong.  
  
He can’t quite figure out what.  
  
 _Of course you can, John! Think!_ A voice says within his head. _What is striking you as incongruent? What doesn’t fit?_  
  
His eyes. Something is wrong with his eyes.  
  
 _What, precisely, is wrong about the eyes, John?_  
  
They are bloodshot and he keeps blinking them rapidly. The pattern is all off. Contacts?  
  
 _Yes, good. Contacts. What else?_  
  
Tiny, hairline scars at the corners of the eyes and around the ears. Surgery, probably.  
  
 _Good. What else?_  
  
His lips. They look slightly swollen and stiff. Unnatural. Collagen, maybe?  
  
 _Right. What else?_  
  
How he moves. He is graceful, but it is a studied grace. Too deliberate. It lacks the unconscious insolent elegance one associates with Sherlock.  
  
 _Excellent, John._  
  
This isn’t Sherlock.  
  
 _You know it’s not._  
  
What do I do now?  
  
 _Stay alive._  
  
John coughs, trying to slow his rough breathing and his heart rate. Maybe he can pretend that this is fine. That he doesn’t know this man isn’t Sherlock. That will probably be the safest course of action in the short term anyway. Relations seem to be amicable so far. Keep playing his game.  
  
The man in the chair draws back, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at John.  
  
John gives a weak smile and plays up the gasping for air. Maybe he can sell his alarm as respiratory distress. Not a far leap to make, anyway.  
  
The man in the chair leans back, hooking an arm over the back of the chair and crossing his long legs. He sighs heavily. “I told him,” he says in a voice full of resignation. “I told him a hundred times that you would never believe it. He never gave you enough credit, John Watson. But I knew.” He leans back further and looks at the stone ceiling. “Ah, well. It’s probably better this way.”  
  
John tries to keep his face under control. “What are you talking about? What’s better? You’re not making any sense, Sherlock.” He forces himself to say the name, but he feels the catch in his throat as he does it.  
  
“Don’t,” says the man as he whips back to face John, his voice icy.  
  
John swallows and closes his eyes. He opens them again and looks at the man boldly. “Who are you?”  
  
The man grins. Even his teeth have been modified to match Sherlock’s.  
  
“Call me Thomas. That’s what Jim called me.”  
  
“Right,” says John, taking that in. “What’s your real name?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” says Thomas. “I’m not him anymore, am I?”  
  
John shakes his head slightly. “Why? Why do this?”  
  
Thomas sighs again and digs in his pocket, pulling out his mobile and pressing the button on top. He presses the button again and slips it back in his pocket. Checking the time, apparently. “Oh, sure. Why not?” Thomas says and adjusts his position to sit more comfortably.  
  
“I was Jim’s project for years,” Thomas begins. “Almost as soon as he discovered Sherlock, he started looking for me. The match, the copy, the twin. And as we both know, Jim was very good at getting what he wanted.” Thomas’s eyes become distant for a moment. He takes a breath and continues, “I was found under the ruse of a modeling contract, if you can believe it. I was selected, brought to Jim for approval, and then all those doctors got to work. I wasn’t the only one, of course. They found other young men, tall and regal, and they attempted the transformation on them as well. Some of them came out rather well, actually. But they didn’t have the talent for it in the end.”  
  
“Talent?” John asks.  
  
“It was not enough to simply look like Sherlock Holmes. With the right bones and Jim’s _motivated_ surgeons, creating a clone was almost easy. No. The twin needed to _be_ Sherlock Holmes. As near as possible anyway. Constant study of movement, mannerisms, facial expressions, and, of course, ages of voice work.” Thomas pops the “k” at the back of his throat in the perfect imitation of Sherlock.  
  
John shivers, “But why?”  
  
“I was going to be many things when I was finished. Jim had so many plans for his very own Sherlock Holmes. He was obsessed. Did you know that? Of course you do. Most of the plans never saw the light of day, however. I did get to play a part in Sherlock’s tragedy, a small part, but it became a turning point, wouldn’t you say? After that, even Jim was a bit surprised by how swiftly Sherlock fell from grace. Amazing how quickly Sgt. Donovan pounced on that opening, hmm?”  
  
John brows knit. “You! It was you who kidnapped the ambassador's children!”  
  
“To be fair,” Thomas shrugs, “I had some help.”  
  
John seethes inwardly. He wants to kill this man.  
  
“Easy, John,” Thomas tells him lightly. “You’re in no condition to fight. No need to add the extra stress to your system just now. Besides, we’re not so different you and I.”  
  
“We are _very_ different,” John hisses.  
  
“No, we’re not. You would do anything for Sherlock. You’ve freely thrown yourself into danger countless times because he asked it of you. You have nearly died on several occasions, all because of your unwavering devotion to this man. And why?”  
  
John glares at Thomas. “He’s my friend.”  
  
“And you love him,” Thomas continues. “As I love Jim. I gave him my life, let him reshape my very essence to fit his need. And I would do it again. Because I love him. He gave my life direction. Purpose. I was alone until he found me, and then the world exploded into _meaning_. I was _someone_ because I was important to Jim.”  
  
“You were a pawn! He used you!” John shouts, dissolving into hoarse coughs.  
  
“Of course he did,” says Thomas softly. “That’s what they do.”  
  
“No,” John says between coughs. “No. Sherlock isn’t like that. Moriarty and Sherlock aren’t the same.”  
  
“Who are we to say? But I know that we are the same. Do you remember the emptiness, John? When you knew, really knew, that he was gone? Do you remember? And you knew, really knew, that no matter what you did, however you might learn to cope, that nothing, _nothing_ , would ever come _close_. Not ever again. It was gone. Forever. Because it was always him. He brought you to life and, in some very real way, you died with him. Remember?”  
  
John closes his eyes and says nothing.  
  
“And then, miracle of miracles, the sun rose again. For you. Just for you, John. Do you know how lucky you are?” Thomas leans close again. “Do you?”  
  
John forces himself to look at Thomas, his heart racing. “He’s going to find me, you know. And things will be very bleak for you then.”  
  
Thomas laughs, “Of course he’s going to find you! I told him exactly where we are.” He checks the time on his mobile again. “I’m a little surprised he isn’t here already. Must need to brush up on his scripture.”  
  
“This is a trap.”  
  
“Oh, John. Of course it is. You see, I, too, am very loyal. Jim was always making contingency plans. He could see a nearly infinite network of possibilities in every interaction. Brilliant to watch him pull the threads.” Thomas shuts his eyes briefly in pleasure. “He knew there was a chance Sherlock would manage to slip through his fingers. Too slippery even for death, that one. But, you see, Jim was always good to his word. He told Sherlock that he owed him. I’m here to pay the debt.”  
  
“You’re luring Sherlock here to kill him,” John says, his voice far steadier than he feels.  
  
“Not exactly, although we shall see how the evening progresses. I have my own score to settle with Sherlock Holmes,” Thomas says, looking at his mobile again. “No, primarily I am luring Sherlock here so he can watch you die.” Thomas scrunches up his nose a bit and gives an apologetic grin. “Sorry.”


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock cannot believe what he is looking at. He grabs the computer from Mycroft so he can get a better look. Mycroft crosses his arms, face pale with fury.

Lestrade sputters, “But...he was with me. On the roof. There’s no way...” He tries to peek over Sherlock’s shoulder at the grainy footage from the hospital’s CCTV camera. Sherlock grips the laptop screen in both hands as if he will snap it in half.

A black and white image shows a small street near a back entrance of the hospital. Sherlock appears on camera, standing on the pavement and pointing to something beyond the camera’s scope. 

The missing guard steps beside Sherlock carrying John’s limp body. The guard nods and hurries off in the direction Sherlock points. Sherlock follows but first turns to look directly at the camera. A sly half smile and he leaves the frame. 

New footage from a different camera blinks onto the screen. Same street, further up the block. Signs for the hospital entrance are visible. The guard places John in the back of a van, climbs in, and shuts the door. Sherlock gets in the front passenger seat and the van drives away.

The screen goes black and then loops back to the previous scene. Sherlock puts his face inches from the screen.

“Are you still going to deny it?” asks Mycroft.

“Please!” growls Sherlock. “That is clearly not me. Even Lestrade knows it.”

Lestrade shakes his head, mouth open.

“Augh! Get me another angle! This is useless!” Sherlock yells, thrusting the computer at the gaping Lestrade but turning to Mycroft.

“The footage I provided has the clearest shots of your face,” Mycroft hisses.

“It’s not my face! Why can’t you see that?” Sherlock screams in frustration. “I need to see John! I can’t tell if he’s breathing from this!” He snatches the computer back and smashes it on the faux stone floor of the chapel.

Mycroft stares at the broken pieces, his face icily blank. “Do you really mean for me to believe that a nefarious stranger who looks exactly like you has kidnapped John and the guard in my employ all while you were conveniently having a smoke with Inspector Lestrade?”  
“I don’t find it convenient in the least,” snaps Sherlock. “How can you possibly believe for one second that I would jeopardize John’s life like this? Not even you think that poorly of me, Mycroft. Not even you.”

Mycroft is briefly stunned. He clears his throat and says, “No. I… Of course not. It’s just that your reasoning regarding John is not always clear to me. And, admittedly, part of me wants this to be your doing. At least then there would be a chance for…” He trails off, clearing his throat again but bravely meeting his brother’s eyes.

Sherlock returns his gaze briefly. “Tell me you at least know where the van is.”

Mycroft exhales sharply. “No. It’s not registered. There appears to be GPS blocking software on board, and the driver has some skill in avoiding detection.”

Lestrade steps in. “I’ll put patrol on the lookout.”

Sherlock, looking again at the dead screen broken on the floor, says, “Don’t bother. I know where they are going.”

“You do?” Mycroft and Lestrade say simultaneously.

“Of course,” says Sherlock, picking up the tattered Bible from the pew where he had dropped it when Mycroft came in raging. He taps the flaking cover for emphasis. “‘Let us also go, that we may die with him.’ The kidnapper clearly wants an audience. I say we give him one.”

“Where?” asks Lestrade.

“St. Bart’s, obviously.”

“You got ‘St. Bart’s’ from that Bible snippet? Is it the story of Saint Bart?”

“Oh, Lestrade, what do they teach at the academy?” Sherlock says witheringly. “It’s the story of Lazarus, the man with the insufferable siblings who force Jesus to raise their dear brother from the dead.” Mycroft rolls his eyes, but Sherlock continues, “Clearly, I am meant to be Lazarus. Therefore, the scene of my ‘death’ is where they will take John so he can…join me.”

“Frankly, I’m a little surprised you know anything at all about the Bible,” Lestrade responds.

“Paranoid schizophrenics in culturally Christian countries are more likely to use the Bible to motivate and defend their delusions than any other social reference point. Of course I know it. Why don’t you?” Sherlock says bitterly. “Now, if you two are quite through wasting time, I suggest you get to St. Bart’s with all of the back-up you can muster. They will either be on the roof or in the basement. The roof would be more suitable for his purposes but also more exposed. Despite the perpetrator’s obvious love of the dramatic, they are more likely to be in the basement. This has taken planning. He won’t risk it by being spotted too early on the roof. So, the basement then.” Sherlock stops speaking to take a breath. “What are you waiting for? Go!”  
Lestrade and Mycroft stand where they are.

“What about you?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock sighs in exasperation and starts pushing them bodily toward the door. “You need to get there first and rescue John. Secure the scene. Having two people there who look like me is a surefire recipe for confusion and disaster, which is not a risk we can take. I will follow behind in a cab, and you will call me when it’s over. Now go!”

“Sherlock, when have you ever waited in the wings? What’s going on?” Mycroft protests.

“It’s John, Mycroft! You think I can’t put my ego aside for John? Now get there before it’s too late or I really will have cause to hate you.”

Lestrade looks at Sherlock and then to Mycroft before jogging down the hallway, pulling his mobile from his pocket and barking instructions into it as he turns the corner. Mycroft gives Sherlock one last appraising glance and then leaves at a rapid clip behind Lestrade, pulling out his own mobile as he goes.

Sherlock watches them leave and takes a deep breath. “Idiots,” he says as he exhales.

He strides purposefully to the hospital’s front entrance and hails a cab. He quickly assesses the cabbie as a middle-aged father of three from Dublin, recently divorced, and even more recently sober, with a shiny new replacement addiction to internet gambling. Satisfied that he is neither a serial killer nor currently in league with the criminal underground, Sherlock gets in the cab.

“Newport Cemetery,” Sherlock tells the cabbie. “Impress me with your speed and I will impress you with my tip.”

The cabbie raises his eyebrows at Sherlock in the rearview mirror but only hesitates a second before pulling into traffic and weaving through the nearest intersection.

Sherlock sits back and watches the blurring city through the smeared windows of the cab. Perhaps it’s a good thing that neither Lestrade nor Mycroft are overly familiar with scripture. If they were, they might know that Jesus and his loyal followers did not go to the scene of Lazarus’s death to procure a miraculous resurrection. They went to his tomb. The kidnapper has taken John to the cemetery where that patient black mirror of a tombstone still waits with Sherlock’s name. 

His mobile rings. Taking it from his pocket, Sherlock glances at the “Unknown” caller on the screen and answers, “Hello.”

“Sherlock!” says an unsettlingly intimate voice. “So nice to finally have a chat. I was just wondering when to expect you?”

“Is he alive?” asks Sherlock.

“Yes,” answers the voice on the other end. “At the moment, he’s quite alive. We were just talking about you, actually. Rude, I know, to speak of someone when he isn’t present, but what can you do?”

Sherlock lets go of a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “Let me speak with him.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Sherlock. I think John may have had enough traumatic goodbyes over the phone, don’t you? And, you should know, he’s not at his best at the moment. Been a rough week as I understand. Pity, really. This is all happening much faster than I would have hoped, but then life’s like that sometimes.”

“Why should I believe you? Let me speak with him.” Sherlock attempts to make his tone both calm and commanding.

There are muffled voices in the background, as if the caller has placed his hand over his mobile to have a conversation with someone else in the room. The caller’s voice becomes clear once again. “When did you say you would be here?”

Behind the question Sherlock hears his name being shouted. The voice is hoarse and strained but undeniably John’s. 

The caller shushes him. “Easy, John. He’s going to think I’m hurting you.” 

More muffled shouts that dissolve into biting, wet coughs.

“Fine, I’ll tell him. Just stop, would you?” the caller sighs. “Sherlock, John wants me to tell you that this is a trap and you shouldn’t come. In fact, when you get here, I intend to kill you both. Now you know. There, are you happy, John?”

Sherlock’s jaw clenches repeatedly. “I’m perfectly aware of your intentions. I know this is a trap.”

“Oh, I know that you know. And you know that I know that you know. But, John...”

Sherlock has the distinct impression that the caller is grinning.

“Who are you?” 

“Oh, you and John. So concerned about identity. As if it is a fixed point. Names and labels—you’re both obsessed.”

“Who are you?” Sherlock hisses. The startled cabbie looks up into the mirror then quickly returns his eyes to the road.

A rich, velvety laugh drips through the mobile. “Why, I’m you!” More laughter. 

Sherlock’s lips twist into a snarl. “Stop this! Tell me who you are!”

“So moody! John, how do you put up with this? If you need a name that badly, you can call me Thomas.” 

“Of course,” Sherlock says with disgust, “the Twin.”

“Just so,” says Thomas, suddenly distracted. There’s a strangled sound of distress in the background. “Sherlock, can you hold on a tick? John’s not breathing.”

“What?” shouts Sherlock, but there is no response. He can only listen to the sounds of wet wheezing and a heavy scraping in the room. 

He hears Thomas say, “Stop it, John! Just let me put it on. You’re acting like a child! He’s still coming even if you’re dead, you know.”

Interminable minutes pass before Thomas picks up the mobile again, sounding slightly out of breath. “There,” he says with a sigh. “The oxygen seems to be helping. Although I have to say, I’m no doctor, and John is being remarkably uncooperative on this point. He honestly believes if he dies before you arrive, you won’t come. He’d still do anything in a futile attempt to protect you. Isn’t that sweet?”

“If anything happens to John, I will kill you.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I’ve got bad news. It’s already happening to John. You see, I used these handy little epinephrine injections to get John awake and breathing on his own after we left the hospital. Worked beautifully, really. But, here’s the thing, one of the side effects is pulmonary edema. It appears I shouldn’t have used them on someone with an acute lung injury. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I do believe John is on his way to drowning in his own blood. I guess I should have read the back of the box first. So when should we expect you?”

“You cannot possibly conceive of the pain I am going to bring into your life.”

“No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand, Sherlock!” screams Thomas, all hint of malicious glee gone. “I shall teach you. You will learn.”

Sherlock senses the situation spiraling to even more dangerous depths, if that is still possible.

“Let me speak to John,” Sherlock tries again. “Please.”

“You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen,” says Thomas, his voice hollow. “Then they stay dead.”

Sherlock stops breathing.

“Better hurry up, Sherlock Holmes. Wouldn’t want to miss John Watson’s last gleaming.”


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock is out of the cab before it comes to a complete stop, having already tossed every note in his billfold into the front seat with the cabbie.  
  
He stops at a tiny roundabout of black asphalt and manicured shrubbery. Surely John and Thomas aren’t actually at his grave. The echoes in the mobile conversation pointed to a room. Where is there a room in a cemetery?  
  
Newport Cemetery is dotted with memorial towers, stately mausoleums, and chapels claimed by various faiths. Sherlock scans these structures and settles on the abandoned Anglican chapel with the crumbling belfry. It is the oldest structure in the cemetery. There would be plenty of places to hide in there.  
  
Sherlock runs toward the chapel knowing that rushing into the building is probably exactly what Thomas wants but unable to stop himself. The rusty padlock on the rotting oak door has already been cut, confirming Sherlock’s conclusion on John’s location. Sherlock tosses the lock aside and strains the door open, flaking red paint digging into his palms.  
  
The inside of the chapel is cold and musty. A single listing pew waits near the altar beside a cracked baptismal font. Everything is covered in pigeon droppings. Two of the chapel’s seven stained glass windows remain intact: Jesus on the cross entrusting his mother to John’s care on the south wall and the Dormition of Mary on the north. A gaping hole above the chancel marks where a rose window once illuminated mourners.  
  
“We’re down here, Sherlock!” comes a voice from below the altar. “I knew you’d make it!”  
  
Sherlock steps behind the baptismal font to see a massive limestone tile has been moved aside to reveal the stone stairs leading to the crypt. Weak light from below makes the uneven steps just visible enough to not be treacherous. Sherlock descends with sidesteps, his back to the stone wall, crouching to avoid the low ceiling.  
  
He emerges into a cavernous room, much larger than the tunnel of steps or even the chapel above suggest. While not ancient by any means, this crypt easily holds several centuries of the dead privileged enough to be buried beneath a sanctuary. Only the holiest of places to decay for the rich and well connected. Dark tunnels lead off in each of the cardinal directions from this main hub beneath the altar upstairs.  
  
In the center of the room lies John, grey faced and sweating but alive. Beside John sits…Sherlock’s twin. Even watching the video of the kidnapping, Sherlock is unprepared for the uncanny resemblance of this man to himself. He is reminded of a time as a teenager, still living at home, when Mycroft brought in a fragile album covered in faded purple velvet worn bare in all but a few places. Mycroft had flipped the book open to the grey portrait of a young British officer serving in the Boer Wars, judging from his uniform and the photographer’s watermark in the corner of 1899. The man’s high cheekbones, aristocratic mouth, and contemptuous glare pointed directly to the camera made Sherlock gasp. Mycroft had laughed. “Who would have thought history could bare two of you!”  
  
“Only one at a time,” Sherlock had replied and then refused to look at the portrait ever again.  
  
Now that portrait had come to life. Utterly familiar and yet alien, like returning to an old flat after someone else had been living there for years. Sherlock’s nerves were on fire with the wrongness of it all.  
  
Thomas points a gun almost casually at John but with the assurance of a person who has used firearms before and is perfectly willing to do so again. John smiles weakly at Sherlock, his face holding a mixture of acceptance and sorrow.  
  
John had known he would come, Sherlock deduces from the expression. He had known and this fact had both comforted and terrified him.  
  
“In a week or ten days, the snow and ice will melt from Cemetery Road,” says Thomas, voice rich with expectation. “I’m coming! Don’t move!” He stands and takes a few steps toward Sherlock. “Once again it is April. Today is the day we would have been married twenty-six years. I finished with April halfway through March.”  
  
Sherlock narrows his eyes at Thomas, who halts well out of Sherlock’s reach, standing between him and John.  
  
“You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen,” Thomas continues. “Then they stay dead.”  
  
Sherlock continues to stare at Thomas, refusing to react.  
  
“Do you like poetry, Sherlock?” asks Thomas. “Such a poignant way to help us cope, don’t you think? That human need to load our pain onto the backs of words and hope that maybe, just maybe, they can carry it away from us, off into another mind, another heart.”  
  
“Words hardly seem up to the task,” says Sherlock. “They can be deceptive.”  
  
Thomas smiles tightly. “Well, you would know about deception.”  
  
“Not nearly so much as you it seems.”  
  
A bark of laughter from Thomas. “Oh! I am sorry we only got to meet just now. Just think of all the fun we could have had!”  
  
“No,” says Sherlock sharply. “John and I are leaving. I will let you live today with the understanding that you will disappear forever.”  
  
“I don’t think so, Sherlock,” Thomas says, the gun pointed loosely but deliberately at Sherlock’s torso. “You broke the rules. The dead stay dead, Sherlock. You made a deal. Jim always pays his debts in full. He owed you death: yours or your friends’. You took back yours, so now John will fulfill the obligation. One death to replace another; it’s fairly simple, really. I’m sure even you can understand.”  
  
Sherlock’s lips curl in anger. “By that logic, your death will pay the debt. You could take John’s place in this equation.”  
  
More laughter from Thomas. “Replace John? Oh, Sherlock! I shudder to think what gossip that would inspire! Besides, we both know John is irreplaceable. Why do you think he was chosen?”  
  
Sherlock looks behind Thomas to John, laboring to breathe as he watches the conversation that will determine his fate. Steady John. Loyal John. Brave John.  
  
Thomas sees the exchange. “Ah, yes. Always so dangerous to let your heart walk around outside your body. Anything can happen to it.”  
  
“Fine,” says Sherlock, eyes still fixed on John, “I will take his place. Let me call him an ambulance. Then you can kill me and leave. The debt will be paid.”  
  
John shakes his head. “Sherlock, no!” he croaks.  
  
“I agree, John,” says Thomas. “No. You had your chance and you chose duplicity. In your arrogance you have destroyed everything. Even now you don’t understand what it is you have done. Sherlock Holmes, the man who could bring down an empire. Sherlock Holmes, the man who could outsmart death. Sherlock Holmes, the man who could betray his best friend.”  
  
“I never betrayed John! I saved him!” shouts Sherlock.  
  
“Saved him for what?” Thomas gestures at John with the point of the gun. “He would rather die than witness your death again! Do you see?”  
  
“It’s not like that,” says Sherlock through clenched teeth. “John doesn’t want to die.”  
  
“No, of course John doesn’t _want_ to die,” says Thomas. “But he _will_ die. He will _die_ for you, Sherlock. Really die. Do you see the difference? Of course you don’t. Even now that kind of devotion is beyond you.”  
  
Sherlock stares at Thomas, brows knit.  
  
Thomas sighs. “Well, I can’t teach you loyalty, but I can teach you the depth of loss. The dead stay dead, Sherlock. Those are the rules.”  
  
Sherlock looks back to John. “Then the rules are wrong,” he says softly.  
  
John gives him a small smile. Sherlock holds John’s gaze, as if the very act of observing him—of witnessing his living, breathing existence—might save him.  
  
Sherlock can read the facts of John just as always. John holds no secrets and yet the improbable totality of John still remains a mystery. How? How can he see everything about this man and still not understand the why? Why he has stayed, despite everything Sherlock has put him through. Why he chose him. Why?  
  
Sherlock turns back to Thomas. “So, how do you imagine this little scenario playing out? I watch John die and then you kill me? Not a very long lesson there.” Sherlock puts his hands behind his back and starts to pace in a short line, maintaining his distance from Thomas. “You could kill John and then leave me to wallow in the grief you think I will be consumed by. Of course, then I will be singularly driven to find you and return the favor, which, without John’s tempering influence, would be a very disturbing possibility for both of us.” Sherlock stops pacing and looks directly at Thomas. “But, I think, especially for you.”  
  
Thomas’s eyes become cold. “You have already taken everything from me.”  
  
“Oh, that isn’t true. At the very least, in this theoretical future, I will have taken your life.”  
  
“What life? I’m the shadow of a dead man’s fantasy. I’m your reflection. I do not exist.”  
  
“We shall see. I’m rather good at finding things that people insist don’t exist.”  
  
“How is it you still don’t understand?” asks Thomas, shaking his head. “This isn’t a tit for tat game of advances and retreats. That game was between you and Jim. And it’s over. It’s over and you still can’t see that. You don’t realize that you’ve already lost.”  
  
“Hardly.”  
  
“I’m restoring balance, Sherlock. That’s all.”  
  
“It isn’t remotely all. This _is_ a game. It’s all a game. You said yourself I broke the rules. That’s why we are here. A punishment for rule-breaking in a game Moriarty forced both of us to play.”  
  
“Not you,” says Thomas. “He never had to force you, did he?”  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes briefly. “No.”  
  
“No,” Thomas repeats. “No, you rushed into his game willingly, so excited to have a worthy playmate, someone _just like you_. Even dragged John into the arena with you so someone would always be around to see what an amazing player you are. ‘Watch me, John! Watch me dance and spin, be ever so clever! Do you see, John? Do you see me?’ And now here we all are, Jim’s favorite little pawns, still playing his game. And that’s what’s so amazing, really. He’s not even here and still he is winning because we all keep playing. That’s real brilliance, Sherlock. Jim’s game just gets grander and grander even after he’s gone. Can you say as much? What’s going to happen to the game when John’s gone? When you’re gone? Hmm?”  
  
He waits for an answer. Sherlock’s eyes flick between Thomas and John but he remains silent.  
  
“Fine,” says Thomas after a long pause. “I will tell you. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. An old woman will cry and fuss and eventually find new renters. A bureaucrat will have one less crisis to worry about. An alcoholic will have one more reason to drink. A policeman will think twice about consulting outsiders ever again. Nothing. Your lives will amount to nothing. Face it, Sherlock, John is the only person in the world who could mourn you, and he’s already done that, so I hope you enjoyed it. Without him, the world is going to be emptier than you can possibly imagine. This is the game you chose to play. A game you’ve already lost. A game you were always going to lose the moment you let him in.”  
  
Sherlock’s face is set into a grim frown, wondering at his odds of tackling Thomas without John or himself taking a bullet. Being surrounded by rock walls makes the chances of ricochet high and, quite probably, deadly. If Thomas isn’t incapacitated immediately, John will die. If Sherlock is shot, John will die. If John is shot, John will die. All of these possible outcomes are unacceptable and yet waiting will prove just as deadly for John. What if Thomas was right? What if he has already lost?  
  
Sherlock looks back to John’s carefully composed face, exemplifying the dignified control of a soldier. His right hand is slowly coiling the oxygen tube that leads from his nose to the tank beside the cot. John nods toward the stairs, indicating that Sherlock should leave.  
  
Sherlock cocks his head a fraction. _What is he doing?_  
  
Thomas narrows his own eyes and quickly glances between Sherlock and John. “Enough talking. It’s been fun but I really think all of us best be off to our respective destinations. John’s been waiting long enough. He’s tired. I can tell.”  
  
John rests limply against the sweat-soaked pillow, his breathing rapid and shallow, watching Thomas intently. Thomas takes a step toward him, and Sherlock takes a step as well. Thomas whirls. “Don’t move! You will stay exactly where you are or I promise you I will make it hurt. You will hear him screaming before it’s over.”  
  
Sherlock freezes. John again nods his head toward the stairs and mouths “Go.” His eyes are pleading with Sherlock, the furrow between his brows painfully deep. A shuddering breath. “Please,” he whispers.  
  
Sherlock feels the earth is moving away from him. Nothing exists but John’s face, his eyes. Without realizing it, he finds that he is shaking his head. _No. I’m sorry, John. No._  
  
Thomas leans over John and deftly plucks the oxygen tube from his nose. John begins to struggle for air almost immediately, fists balling the wool blankets and eyes rolling.  
  
“John!” shouts Sherlock.  
  
“Don’t make me tell you again!” Thomas yells, gun pointed fixedly on Sherlock. “Stay there and watch!”  
  
John’s eyes shut tightly, and he whispers something between gasps for air, lips moving urgently.  
  
Thomas looks between John and Sherlock, his face clouding with conflicted emotion for an instant. He moves closer to John. “Tell me, John. I owe you. It’s not your fault. Tell me and I will tell him.”  
  
Thomas leans in, his ear inches from John’s mouth as John cycles through his barely audible final message again, Thomas’s eyes and his gun never wavering from Sherlock.  
  
“I’m,” begins Thomas, repeating John’s strangled words, “not...playing.”  
  
John strikes, head and hands lashing out in a blur of speed. Thomas screams as John teeth sink into his ear, but the scream is cut off abruptly as John pulls the oxygen cord tightly around his throat.  
  
Thomas fires two rounds before dropping the gun to use both hands to wrench the cord from his windpipe.  
  
Sherlock throws himself to the floor to avoid the bullets, raising his head in time to see John twist the cord sharply and heave himself off the cot and on top of Thomas. They both fall to the ground, landing in a struggling heap. Thomas’s long legs lash out and upset the metal table, bringing the lantern down with a crash of shattering glass.  
  
“No!” screams Sherlock, but the room has already exploded with hungry flame eagerly united with pure oxygen.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock dives into the fire, landing hard on his right shoulder as flames singe his hair. Shutting his eyes against the heat, he bites down on the urge to call out for John, knowing he would merely get a scorched throat for the effort. Feeling blindly in front of him, his hands scrape along the stone floor before hitting the familiar touch of wool. 

His coat. Well. Not his coat. 

He grabs onto the coat with both hands and pulls, dragging the coat’s occupant back. There is no resistance from Thomas. Sherlock heaves again, clawing roughly at his impostor. Sherlock’s hands reach Thomas’s face. He recoils as his hands come away wet and sticky. Blood. Sherlock shoves Thomas, rolling him away. He is deador as good as—and not his problem anymore.

Still crawling on his stomach, Sherlock reaches out toward where he knows John must be and is rewarded with a leg. A leg that kicks at him weakly. Sherlock is overcome with a heady mixture of joy and annoyance. John is still alive, and neither of them can afford time lost to a struggle just now. Sherlock scrambles around John and stops near his head, grabbing onto the shoulders of his hospital gown. John reaches for him, trying to knock his arms away. Sherlock has to risk speaking.

“John! It’s me! Stop it so I can get us out of here!” Sherlock hisses quickly and then takes a breath through his sleeve. The acrid air burns anyway and he starts to choke. He looks around the chamber. The flames have receded somewhat, happily consuming the cot John had been lying on and belching out thick greenish smoke. Between the burning cot and the stairs he had descended is the fat oxygen tank, still intact and waiting. 

They wouldn’t be leaving that way then. Sherlock crouches and drags the semiconscious John into the dark tunnel behind them.

Sherlock is immediately pleased with his choice. The tunnel slopes downward and branches just a few dozen feet later, then branches again, then again. The air is dank but relatively smoke-free as they descend deeper into the tunnels. Sherlock takes the right, then the left, then another right, and then bumps into what he had been hoping to find: a door. It’s not as solid as Sherlock had been hoping for, there is a metal grate at the top, but it will offer some needed protection. Sherlock stands and puts all of his weight into lifting the rusty iron latch. It gives way with a groan and a deep gash to his palm. Sherlock resists the urge to swear and reaches down for the dazed John, who is moaning softly and shaking his head. 

“Shh, John, it’s all right now,” Sherlock says absently as he drags John in and kicks the door shut. He fishes his mobile from his pocket and uses the display light as a makeshift torch. They are in a private mausoleum occupied by the Chadbourne family, going by the surname carved into the eight coffin-shaped niches in the walls. No other exit through here.

Sherlock directs the light at John, kneeling over him to assess his injuries. His eyebrows and some of his hair have been singed away. His face is a harsh, ruddy color beneath black grime, but the burns don’t appear to be too severe. His hands are blistering, though. Sherlock gently lifts the hospital gown to examine the wounds from the knife attack and the surgery. Blood blots the bandage covering the chest tube incision. Sherlock pulls back the tape and gauze and sees several of the sutures have broken. The blood is merely seeping, however. This should be manageable. He replaces the tape and turns his attention to John’s breathing, which is shallow and crackling but not unduly labored. 

All things considered, John seems to be all right. At least, he’s not actively dying. He should be able to survive long enough to get medical attention. Sherlock lets out a long breath and begins to cough again himself.

John moans, and Sherlock shrugs off his coat and places it over him just as the explosion rattles their tiny chamber and a thick cloud of dust pours through the metal grate on the door. Sherlock instinctively covers John with his own body. Beneath him, John is on his side covering his head with his arms faster than Sherlock would have thought humanly possible, much less by a barely conscious, gravely wounded human. His astonishment then embarrasses him. Of course John reacts appropriately to surprise bombings even if barely conscious. He has had more practice than most.

John is fully awake now and struggling. Sherlock tries to restrain him bodily but quickly decides this will only lead to further injury, perhaps for both of them. He stands against the door several feet away from John and brings the phone display to life again. The murky light is better than nothing, even if it is mostly illuminating the dust motes.

“John, stop. It’s me.”

John glares at him. “Prove it.”

Sherlock opens his mouth in instinctive protest but stops himself. John is right to be suspicious. He takes a breath and says, “Colonel Mustard succumbed to acute lead poisoning resulting, in part, from years of exposure to lead-laden munitions while serving in France and exacerbated by handling the lead pipe while in a highly anxious state, causing his palms to sweat and his pores to leach the toxin he unknowingly gripped in a misguided attempt at self-defense. He stumbled into the kitchen in search of a beverage to wash the metallic taste from his mouth and then succumbed to delirium and death.” He pauses then adds, “It’s the only possible solution.”

John glares a moment longer then grins, clearly relieved. “Thank God,” he says, visibly relaxing. “We’re still never playing that again.”

Sherlock gives a short choke of laughter. His throat is suddenly very tight. John is awake. John is smiling. At him.

John tries to sit up but gives a hiss of pain when he places his hands on the gritty stone floor. Sherlock bends down to help him, leaning him against the marble sarcophagus occupied by Ambrose Chadbourne. When John seems relatively comfortable, Sherlock slides his back down the rough stone to sit beside him. 

For several minutes they just sit: John wheezing, Sherlock examining his sliced palm by the light of his mobile. 

“So,” says John finally. “What happened?”

“The oxygen tank exploded,” Sherlock says. “In twenty minutes or so, when the debris has settled, I will see if the tunnel has collapsed. I suspect it has.”

“Right.” John nods a bit. He looks over at Sherlock, lips pursing slightly. He rubs at his chest absently while observing his friend and then cries out. “Ow!” he looks down at his chest, covered by the filthy hospital gown. He pulls at the neck and peers down, poking lightly at the bandage he finds there. “Ow,” he says again, then looks up with alarm. “Oh my God! I was stabbed! Sherlock, I was stabbed! Someone stabbed me!”

Sherlock stares at him in disbelief. “Yes, of course you were stabbed. Don’t you remember? That’s how this whole mess started. You let yourself get stabbed.”

John ignores the implications of that statement as a flood of memories slam into him. “You gave me a chest tube using a Polo engine.”

“Yes,” confirms Sherlock. “Why are you bringing this up? We were both there.”

“And then...” John falters, his mind nearly touching upon something else and then withdrawing, like a wave receding from shore. He shakes his head. “How long?”

“Over a week.”

“Oh.” John tries to sort through the jumble of memories. “And then I got kidnapped? Again?”

Sherlock nods.

“And now we’re stuck in a crypt?”

“Beneath Newport Cemetery.”

The name hits John like a blow. “Perfect,” he says after a moment. “Oh, that’s just perfect.”

“Thomas thought so.”

“Oh, yes, and you have an evil twin.”

Sherlock looks sidelong at John. “Had. I had an evil twin. You killed him with an inelegant combination of biting, punching, strangulation, and fire. Not your best work, John.”

John sighs. “Not my worst, either. We’re both still alive. I think.” John shifts his weight and winces. “Yeah, still alive. No way being dead would hurt this much.”

“It hurts more than you might expect,” Sherlock says softly.

“Just when I think life can’t possibly get any stranger.” John looks at his hands, flexing them gingerly and wheezing. 

“Are you all right?” asks Sherlock.

“You need to be more specific.”

“Thomas said the epinephrine injections caused pulmonary edema that was killing you.”

“Oh, that,” says John, his tone light. “Yeah, I might have mentioned something about that while I struggled oh so valiantly for air. I mean, it’s true, they do cause pulmonary edema, and you shouldn’t give them to people with chest wounds unless there is a cardiac emergency, but the edema won’t surface for days.” He smiles at Sherlock. “Good thing Thomas wasn’t a doctor or he might have known that. Although, honestly, the injections weren’t a terrible idea. Kick started the engine it seems.”

“So you’re not dying?”

“Not at the moment. But I’m guessing a course of antibiotics will be in order at the very least, between these burns and your creative surgery techniques.”

“Me?” Sherlock says, offended.

“Sterilize the engine block first, did you?” Sherlock gives him a hurt look and John softens. “I’m sorry. That was amazing, what you did. You would have been a good army doctor.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“And I can only imagine you did something equally amazing to discover my whereabouts so quickly.”

Sherlock gives a wry half smile.

“And then came straight here without a plan or backup.”

“I had a plan,” Sherlock lies.

John raises his eyebrows at him.

“My plan was to save you,” Sherlock mutters.

“Yeah,” says John. “Funny, that was my plan too.”

“I would have saved you, John,” Sherlock says. “You didn’t have to...do what you did.”

“Ah, well. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Sherlock snorts derisively.

“Did you know?” asks John.

“Know what?”

“About Thomas.”

“Of course not! How can you even ask me that?” Sherlock pauses. “Although his existence, improbable as it was, does explain some things.”

“Yeah,” says John. “Yeah, I guess it does.” John looks over at Sherlock. “So, with Thomas gone and the Ferrier Estate cleared out, is it done now?”

Sherlock sighs heavily. “No. No, I don’t think so. This web is more vast and more impossible than even I had imagined. I had been assuming there was a logical, if flawed, reasonableness to it all. Now...” Sherlock looks down. “I’m sorry, John.”

“For what?”

“My miscalculations nearly cost you your life. Again.”

“Don’t. Don’t do that,” John says firmly. 

Sherlock looks up, confused.

“Don’t act like everything that happens to me is because of something you did or didn’t do. I’ve made choices, too. I knew what I was getting into.”

“Did you?” Sherlock asks, surprised.

John looks right into his eyes. “Yes.”

Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment when the phone display winks off, leaving them in darkness. Sherlock turns it back on, noting the time. 

“I’m going to investigate the state of the tunnel, John,” he says, standing. “Don’t wander off.”

“Don’t wander off? Are you serious?” asks John as Sherlock opens the creaking door. Sherlock shuts the door without latching it. “You better come back!” shouts John on the other side. “It’s bloody dark in here, and I don’t fancy my corpse being found without any trousers!”

Sherlock makes his way back along the tunnels, approaching the main chamber where the explosion originated. As he predicted, the artery leading to the chamber has collapsed. Limestone rubble heaped with broken brick and a few shattered coffins block their escape. A skeletal arm with scraps of mummified flesh still clinging to it reaches out from the pile. 

Sherlock frowns and turns his mobile to face him. No reception. He waves it about hopefully but no bars appear on the display. Turning the phone away from him to act as a torch again, he makes his way back to John.

Sherlock returns to the Chadbourne tomb and puts his mobile in his pocket, leaving them in darkness.

“Not good?” John asks.

“No,” says Sherlock. “The tunnel back to the chapel has collapsed, and the phone’s battery is low. We should save it.”

“OK,” says John. “What now?”

“We wait,” says Sherlock, sliding down the wall to sit beside John once more. “If the explosion drew any sort of attention, we might be rescued.”

“‘If’ and ‘might,’” responds John. “Please tell me there is a Plan B.”

“Of course there is,” says Sherlock. “Just give me a moment.”


	19. Chapter 19

“John? Why are you asleep? I have to tell you something. You won’t like it, so pay attention.”

“Mmm?” murmurs John, on the verge of wakefulness and leaning heavily on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Nazis, John! Wake up!” Sherlock tries to rise without jostling John too much. 

“What? Where?” John jerks awake and winces. He leans back against the sarcophagus and braces himself for an attack. It’s completely dark in the mausoleum but he can hear Sherlock stand and begin to pace.

“Not here, obviously. I don’t think they ever made it to this part of London, but they might have done!” Sherlock says.

“The hell?” asks John as his mind tries to simultaneously synthesize the competing input of pain, Sherlock, pain, dark crypt, pain, potential Nazi attack, and pain. “How long was I asleep?”

“Not long. We were just talking,” Sherlock answers.

That could mean anything from a few minutes to several days, John surmises glumly, but Sherlock is still speaking.

“...large enough, surely. Everyone knows that the Tube was converted into air raid shelters during the Blitz, but so were some of the crypts.”

“OK,” says John, trying desperately to form coherent thoughts. It could be a challenge keeping up with Sherlock at the best of times. This just wasn’t fair. “That’s...neat. So we should be safe if Axis forces decide to bomb the cemetery. That’s a relief. I’m glad you woke me.”

“Sarcasm is unbecoming, John,” says Sherlock, continuing to pace. “Besides, you’ve been sleeping for a week. How can you still be tired?”

“How can...?” begins John and stops himself. There was no point. “Are you going to tell me how Nazis saved the day or not?”

John can’t see the look Sherlock is giving him, but he can feel it. “Nazis never save the day, John, don’t be ridiculous. The British government saved the day by having the foresight to put the populace underground. If you ever even hint that I said such a thing to Mycroft, I will never speak to you again.”

“Sherlock,” says John, his tone weary.

“If this crypt was turned into a shelter,” Sherlock says slowly, as if speaking to a child or a tourist, “it means there is another way out.”

“Hey,” says John, perking up. “That is good news.”

“Yes, it is,” agrees Sherlock, still pacing. “It is because it is imperative that we not be rescued.”

“But,” says John, “before you said waiting to be rescued was our Plan A. Now being rescued is no good?”

“Worse than no good: It can’t be allowed to happen. Aren’t you listening?”

“Aren’t you?” John asks, then sighs. “Fine. So what’s Plan B, then?”

“We are found dead in the rubble.”

John barks out a sharp laugh, but there is no humor in it. “Oh, God, of course. Of course that’s your Plan B. I hate your Plan B’s, Sherlock. They are terrible. Do you know that? Bloody awful.”

Sherlock continues to pace the length of the small tomb.

“Sherlock?” John asks, his concern growing. “Are you serious? Your solution is for us to die here?” 

“John, it’s the only way,” Sherlock’s voice is low and rapid. “Don’t you see? If the past week has proven anything it is that I have rather gravely underestimated the bizarre lengths Moriarty was willing to go to in order to settle this. I need time. Time I won’t get if we are still targets.”

“Oh my God,” John whispers. “Oh my God, you’re serious.”

“Do you think I would ask this of you if there were any other way? I would do it by myself, but I honestly don’t think it would be enough this time. Your death would be either a warning or insurance at that point and I can’t do that, John. I won’t!” Sherlock shouts, angry and desperate.

John struggles to control his breathing as the implications of Sherlock’s words fly about his mind like frightened sparrows. How will this work? What about his friends? Harry? How can he put Mrs. Hudson through this again? How does a person just walk away from his life?

In the darkness, he turns his head toward Sherlock, who finally stops pacing. He knows Sherlock is looking at him. Waiting. Waiting for John to decide this time. This time, Sherlock is asking John to jump with him.

And despite everything, John knows he will jump. To do otherwise is unthinkable. He was always going to jump with him.

“How...” John asks, his voice breaking. He swallows and begins again. “How are we going to do it?”

Sherlock lets out a long breath. He kneels beside John and gently takes his wrist in his hands. “I’ll need this,” Sherlock says and stretches John’s hospital ID bracelet slightly so it slips off his hand with a light tug. “I already have these.” Sherlock pulls something from his trouser pocket with a metallic jingle. John instantly recognizes the sound. Dog tags. His dog tags.

“Right,” John says, wondering why Sherlock would be in possession of his dog tags. He thought they were gathering dust behind the alarm clock on his bedside table. “Yeah, right...”

Sherlock stands, returning the tags and bracelet to his pocket and turning on the precious mobile light. Its brightness is almost painful after so long in the dark. “I suspect the body of your ill-fated guard is hidden nearby. He was short and of similar complexion. He should do. I’ll need to place your identification in the proper location and confirm a few other theories. Once I’ve found the exit, I’ll be back for you.”

Sherlock opens the door to the mausoleum and steps through, then turns back to John. His lips move hesitantly, as though he is thinking through a sentence in a language he is not fluent in. His mouth tightens and he quickly turns away, shutting the door behind him.

John looks toward where the light left for a moment then settles his head once more against Ambrose Chadbourne’s marble sarcophagus to contemplate what life will be like as a dead man.


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft knows where Sherlock is the moment Lestrade gets the call about an explosion at Newport Cemetery. 

He and Lestrade had secured and combed St. Bart’s with their people for over an hour before realizing that John and his mysterious kidnapper were not on the premises. Mycroft knew this was the case after twenty minutes, when the basement was found to be vacant and Sherlock refused to answer his phone. Lestrade had insisted on continuing the search, so sure that Sherlock would not lead them astray. He had thought Lestrade was smarter than to surrender to the allure of trust, but apparently the Detective Inspector feels he has something to prove to his brother.

An hour of searching and an hour of increasingly angry voice messages, fruitless surveillance inquiries, and agitated waiting followed. 

Mycroft finally sent his team away and is in the process of persuading Lestrade to do the same when Lestrade’s mobile chirps in his hand. 

“Lestrade,” the DI barks into the phone without preamble. He listens intently, eyes locking with Mycroft’s. “What sort of explosion?”

Mycroft stiffens, a movement barely perceptible to anyone but Sherlock and himself, he knows from experience. 

“Is NaCTSO on the scene?” Lestrade asks the caller and listens to the answer. “I’m on my way. Keep civilians and the media far away from this, and, please, don’t anyone say the word ‘terrorism’ until we have some answers, yeah?”

Lestrade ends the call and blows out a heavy sigh. “There’s been an explosion at Newport Cemetery. Leveled a chapel apparently.”

“It’s him,” Mycroft says, already moving toward his car.

“You can’t know that, Mycroft,” shouts Lestrade as he jogs after him. “It could be anything. Gas leak, methane pocket, Al-Qaeda, anything!”

“A coincidence on this grand a scale? Surely not,” Mycroft calls over his shoulder.

He slides into the backseat of a black sedan and Lestrade climbs in after him. Mycroft does not acknowledge Lestrade’s presumptive action, he simply tells the driver to take them to Newport Cemetery. The driver knows to do this with all haste.

They ride in silence for several minutes, each man looking out their respective windows.

“But why would Sherlock blow up the cemetery?” Lestrade asks finally. “What purpose would that serve?” 

“Two reasons come to mind,” Mycroft says quietly. “Neither of them bode well for his future.”

“Yes?” Lestrade prods when Mycroft falls silent again.

Mycroft sighs, but it is more sad than exasperated. “Sherlock may have been caught in the trap the kidnapper laid for him.”

“That seems...unlikely.”

“Or he discovered something when he arrived that lead him to believe a scorched earth approach would be the best course of action.”

“But what could...? Oh,” says Lestrade as the implications of that possibility sink in. He looks over to Mycroft, who is still staring out his window. “It might be fine,” Lestrade offers. “Maybe Sherlock rescued John and decided to be dramatic about dispatching the kidnapper.”

“And then stopped answering his mobile to prolong the drama? Stayed away from my cameras to increase the suspense?” Mycroft gives Lestrade a slight sneer but his heart isn’t in it. 

“Well, it’s Sherlock. So...maybe?” Lestrade sighs. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions. We don’t know anything yet.”

Mycroft turns back to his window and says nothing.

The sedan slices through the police perimeter surrounding the cemetery with a single word from Mycroft. The car halts on the thin asphalt road nearest to the site. Everything is coated in chalky ash. Mycroft leaves the car and walks toward the crater where he presumes the chapel once stood. It didn’t just collapse, he sees, it sank. Crumbled into the earth. 

Dozens of specialists in ridiculous looking protective gear climb over the ruins with robotic cameras and rescue dogs. 

Mycroft feels Lestrade standing behind him. 

“Jesus,” Lestrade murmurs, staring at the sunken mountain of masonry and timber. 

“Sir!” 

Both men turn to see Sergeant Greyson approach with a stout, graying man in tow.

“Mr. Holmes, Detective Inspector,” Greyson says with a quick nod to each. “This is Mr. Lowry, the groundskeeper here. He says he witnessed nothing out of the ordinary today and insists there was no one in the chapel at the time of the incident.”

“That’s right,” Lowry continues, wiping sweat from his brow despite the spring chill. “I was in the office the other side of the cemetery when I felt the explosion. Knocked me out of my chair! I came running and you wouldn’t believe the noise and the dust. The whole chapel, just gone! I phoned the police straight away, but I wasn’t too worried after some time passed and nothing else happened. The chapel’s been abandoned for years. Since before my time here, at least. I knew no one got hurt, thank God. It was locked. Check the lock myself every evening to make certain no kids get inside for drugs or what have you. Cemetery’s always quiet on weekday mornings, anyhow. No one was nearby. A lucky miss, if you ask me. Could have been a lot worse.” Lowry gestures to the rubble and mops his forehead again.

Mycroft narrows his eyes at Lowry then offers a thin smile. “Thank you, Mr. Lowry. Your quick action and cooperation are a credit to your profession. You have had a difficult day. Sergeant Greyson will have someone fetch you some tea and a place to rest while we sort through this unpleasantness.” 

“Right,” says Lowry, distracted. He lowers his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “So it was Al-Qaeda, yeah? They’re always wanting to blow up our churches. My sister sends me these emails. I didn’t really believe ’em, but I tell you what, now I know they’re no joke!”

Mycroft continues his wan smile and nods to Greyson who shuttles Lowry off to another handler, where he will be kept out of harm’s way and kept from doing damage himself.

“Keep looking,” Mycroft says when Greyson returns. 

The sergeant nods crisply and strides away. Lestrade watches Greyson’s exit then turns to Mycroft. 

“How is he always here? Before you? How do you do that?” Lestrade asks.

“Communication and practice,” Mycroft answers shortly. “Honestly, Greg. It’s not magic.” 

He turns his focus back to the crater as the agents carefully pick through the rubble, shifting cracked marble, taking readings, urging the dogs onward.

Mycroft has not been present at such a scene in a very long time. Rescue, extraction, and containment were best managed from afar. Somehow, whenever Sherlock is involved, he always finds himself much closer to such things than is welcome or prudent.

The grey mist gives way to a steadier rain. Mycroft shifts his weight and opens his umbrella without being consciously aware of the action. Lestrade steps next to him, and Mycroft hesitates before raising the umbrella slightly, an invitation for Lestrade to join him beneath its protection. Lestrade shuffles a bit then steps under the umbrella, his eyes fixed on the crater below.

Mycroft watches the methodical chaos of the pit but finds his gaze pulled upward, across the cemetery grounds. Hundreds of monuments and memorials sprouting from the earth alongside willows, oaks, and countless hedges. A copse of lilac trees sways in the rain near the cemetery gate. Fresh, delicate leaves lend them a distinctive grace only found a few weeks each year.

“It’s going to be a lovely spring,” Mycroft says absently.

Lestrade glances toward him but looks away quickly. Eye contact is too intimate at this range.

A shout and frantic barking from the far side of the rubble heap draws their attention. A dozen agents converge toward the spot. Lestrade is already halfway across the crater before Mycroft looks down at his shoes, covered in soggy granite dust, and wills himself to follow.

A team of rescue workers has pulled their discovery from the wreckage by the time Mycroft reaches the huddle. Lestrade is among those crouching, his dark suit jacket absorbing the rain. As if he senses him approaching, Lestrade whirls around and blocks his path. 

“Mycroft, don’t,” Lestrade says, going so far as to take his arm as if to lead him away. 

Mycroft shoots him his coldest glare, a look he rarely gives an ally.

Lestrade releases him, shaking his head. He steps aside, rubbing a hand over his face and then leaving it at his mouth. He turns away, allowing Mycroft to approach the huddled agents unimpeded.

Two of the agents look up. Greyson is one of them, his face ashen. He stands with a barely audible, “Sir.” He then straightens his spine and orders the rest of the agents to stand aside.

Mycroft looks down at the prone figure left in their wake as they recede. His mind struggles to make sense of what is before him, giving him tiny fragments but not the whole. 

The coat. The missing shoe. The blood mixing with rain and ash. The wrist at an impossible angle. The blackened fingers. Sherlock’s face. Half gone.

Gone.

Everything is too close, much too close.

Mycroft looks behind him at the rubble they pulled him out of as if scanning the wreckage for the rest of his brother’s skull. 

He must fix this. How can he fix this? There must be a way. How?

Greyson takes a step forward, unsure, but Lestrade is already beside him, arms around his shoulders, hauling him to his feet.

Mycroft doesn’t recall sinking to his knees.

“Mycroft!” Lestrade whispers desperately near his ear. “It might not be him! Maybe it’s not him!”

Mycroft shakes his head, dazed. How can that be him? His brother can’t be dead. How can that not be him? Mycroft has known that face since it came into existence.

But now it’s half gone.

Mycroft allows Lestrade to pull him up, leaning on him as he turns them both away from the body.

“He’s getting wet...” Mycroft says, looking over his shoulder.

Lestrade stops, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He calls to Greyson, “Cover him up!” then leads Mycroft back to the black sedan.

Mycroft sits in the back of the car, elbows on his knees and hands folded beneath his chin as he stares through the passenger seat in front of him. Thick droplets of rain slide unnoticed from his disheveled hair and down his face, crashing, finally, onto the leather upholstery.

Lestrade looks at his mobile, out the window, at Mycroft in a nervous cycle of activity. Finally he says again, “It might not be him.”

“I’m sorry, Greg. That was most unseemly. I apologize,” says Mycroft without shifting his gaze away from the back of the seat.

“Mycroft, are you even listening? I said that might not be him! We both saw that recording. That man who took John looked a lot like Sherlock.”

Mycroft makes a soft sound of assent. “Yes. Yes, he did. But I know better than most how easily images can be manipulated. How convincing certain disguises can be.”

“But you have to admit there’s a possibility that the body they just found isn’t...him.”

“Did it look like a disguise to you?”

Lestrade rubs at his top lip with his thumb. The muffled sound of barking drifts into the sedan. “No. But I still think we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Not this time...” Lestrade looks out the window again. “Damn it.”

“If that isn’t...my brother...then where is he? Where is John?” Mycroft asks the back of the seat.

Greyson approaches the vehicle, hazy through the rain and condensation on the window. Mycroft rolls it down. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“Sir. We’ve located another body. Well, an arm, Sir.”

Lestrade swears under his breath and Mycroft takes a deep breath. “I see,” Mycroft says carefully. “I don’t suppose it’s currently possible to ascertain the identity of the owner?”

“Actually, Sir,” Greyson says and passes Mycroft a strip of laminated plastic. 

Mycroft takes the strip, distorted by its partial melting but still legible. “Thank you, Greyson,” Mycroft says, voice barely above a whisper. “You may go.”

Mycroft hands the strip to Lestrade, whose string of obscenities becomes louder and less creative.

Mycroft leaves his window open, the rain splashing into the car.

“Still believe that isn’t my brother, Inspector?”


	21. Chapter 21

Lestrade holds John Watson’s charred hospital bracelet while he stares out the window of the sedan, moving the strip in a slow, methodical circle between his fingers.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it? How the habits we believe we have left behind have a tendency to reappear in times of duress?” 

“Sorry?” says Lestrade, turning to Mycroft. Neither of them has spoken since they left the cemetery. The chauffeur had returned to the car and wordlessly begun the drive to London with no discernible sign from Mycroft. 

Mycroft motions with his chin toward Lestrade’s hand. “Ingrained during a childhood of catechism classes and maternal obligation, no doubt.” Mycroft returns his gaze to his own window. “A habit of faith, which a rookie officer would take pains to hide from his cynical colleagues. A policeman can pray in theory, but not practice. Not if he wants to advance. So you stopped. But a habit like this lurks beneath the surface. It only takes one powerful wave to expose it to air once more.”

Lestrade looks down at the bracelet, stopping the unconscious movement of his fingers. Part of him wants to think he had, on some level, been doing something so noble as praying for the souls of his friends. He knows better. He had been watching London grow around him, the endless blocks of flats, launderettes, kabab shops, and pubs, observing the city’s residents in their various states of wealth and defeat milling about in placid ignorance. 

Had London always been this empty? Was Sherlock Holmes merely a fascinating distraction from the utter mundaneness of human cruelty? Sherlock had honestly believed every crime could be solved, every puzzle could be answered, every action had a reason. Despite his dark moods and volatility, there was hope at the bedrock of a belief like that. Sherlock stared life down and forced it to make sense. John had seen that hope and tethered himself to it like a man drowning. Lestrade wonders if he hadn’t, on some level, done the same. 

Lestrade places the bracelet on the seat between them, folding his hands in his lap. “The first time I met Sherlock, he included ‘altar boy’ in the list of things he could deduce about me. At the time I thought it was a lucky guess.”

Mycroft makes a derisive sound through his nose. 

“I learned better quickly,” Lestrade continues. “But I never did ask him what it was that had given me away on that point.”

“That was probably for the best, Inspector,” says Mycroft. “He would have outed you in front of the precinct.”

“Half the lads on the squad were altar boys, Mycroft.” Lestrade turns to the window again, the city crawling by in a nearly hypnotic sameness. “God and I aren’t really on speaking terms anymore,” he goes on, not really knowing why he is saying this out loud. “I guess neither of us feels the other is doing his job particularly well.”

He can feel Mycroft looking at him but does not turn away from the window. “Where do you want to go?” Mycroft finally asks.

“What?”

“The driver can take you home,” says Mycroft, “or to your office, if you prefer.”

Right. He had a job. A big, bloody important job with mountains of paperwork and colleagues with pitying or smug or clueless faces to contend with.

Lestrade runs a hand over his face. “Are those my only options?”

Mycroft sighs. “What do you suggest as an alternative?”

“We could use a drink,” Lestrade says and gives the driver an address.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow but allows the driver to change course.

 

The Fox and Kettle pub is peppered with regulars watching the match between Italy and Portugal. There’s light banter and speculation about the game, but no one seems to be overly invested in the outcome one way or the other. Several men nod in Lestrade’s direction before turning their attention back to the telly.

Lestrade brings two pints to a small table in the back, away from the bar and most of the other patrons. Mycroft sits stiffly on the cracked upholstery of a dingy armchair. Lestrade slides onto the deflated velvet cushion of the adjacent sofa and places one of the pints in front of Mycroft while taking a long pull from his own. 

Mycroft looks at the pint skeptically, lifting it and taking a small sip. He raises his eyebrows and takes a bigger gulp, setting the glass down on the scarred wood of the table. “I expected worse.”

Lestrade chuckles. “Yeah, shock is famous for making beer taste better.”

Mycroft smiles shallowly, a gesture that does not reach his eyes. 

Lestrade takes another long pull, draining half the pint. “So,” he says, setting the glass down and trailing a finger through the condensation ring left behind on the table, “What happens now?”

“Hmm?” says Mycroft, as though he had been only half listening.

“What do we do now?” asks Lestrade again. “What’s the plan? How are we going to find who did this to them?”

Mycroft folds his hands in front of him. “I’m willing to bet Sherlock already took care of that problem for us. There’s a good deal more rubble to sift through and, no doubt, more...discoveries waiting therein.”

Lestrade wonders how much of John Watson they’ll be able to recover then shakes his head, willing that image gone, but it’s too late.

“Let’s keep Molly out of this one, yeah?” Lestrade says to his beer.

Mycroft takes a deep breath and stands. “I’m far too sober for this conversation, Inspector. Excuse me, won’t you?” he says and strides over to the bartender. He returns to the table a moment later with two short glasses and a full bottle of single-malt Three Wood. He pours equal measures of the amber liquid into each glass and holds one out to Lestrade. “I have to say, I’m surprised to find scotch of this caliber here.”

“Yeah, well,” says Lestrade, draining the last of his pint before accepting the scotch, “Even us common folk like the good stuff sometimes.”

“I will see that Miss Hooper has nothing to do with this matter in a professional capacity,” Mycroft says after settling back into the armchair and taking a sip of the scotch. “My brother has put that poor woman through enough.”

“I suppose so,” Lestrade says, taking a sip of his own scotch and looking at it in surprise when the anticipated burn is more of a consuming warmth in his stomach. The battle against his liver will be a pleasure with this weapon. “There was this Christmas party at Baker Street and Molly brought Sherlock a gift. Sherlock instantly knew everything about it except that it was for him. It was so obvious to everyone and yet...” Lestrade trails off. It was too soon for reminiscing. 

“My brother had something of a blind spot when it came to how others saw him.”

Lestrade empties his scotch glass and reaches for the bottle. “It doesn’t seem real, does it? How can they be gone?”

Mycroft refills his own glass and twirls it lightly in his fingers, eyes on the golden liquor. “You went to weekly confession, Inspector?”

“What?”

“As a youth. It was required of you, was it not?”

“Uh, yeah, I did,” says Lestrade, confused. “What does that have to do with...?”

“Will you hear my confession, now?”

“Mycroft, what is this? I’m not a priest.”

“And I’m not asking for absolution. I don’t believe it exists. I’m asking you if you will hear it.” Mycroft looks directly at Lestrade, waiting.

“OK,” says Lestrade. “Sure.” He sips more scotch.

Mycroft empties his second glass and places it on the table. He leans forward in the creaky armchair and folds his hands beneath his chin. “Our father died when Sherlock was still an infant. Our mother when Sherlock was in primary school. Now, any adequate psychologist will tell you that my propensity for caution and Sherlock’s propensity for risk have their catalyst in this shared history.”

Lestrade starts to offer condolences for long-dead parents but stops himself. Whatever it is Mycroft wants right now, it isn’t sympathy.

“I learned early that all lives end,” Mycroft continues, “and as my brother became more...himself...it fell to me to keep him safe, to protect him from real and perceived harm, insomuch as I was able. Fortunately for both of us, it quickly became clear I have a talent for manipulating systems.” Mycroft pours himself another scotch and sips at it absently. “For most of our lives Sherlock and I have resented each other: Him for my meddling and I for the constant requirement that I meddle. Ultimately, we resented the fact that we were left alone together. That we were the only family either one of us would ever have.”

“But...” says Lestrade.

“But then,” Mycroft picks up Lestrade’s thought, “John.” Mycroft drains his glass. “Sherlock somehow finds John. He gets a family and I gain a most valuable recruit in the campaign to keep Sherlock safe.”

“You make it sound like a war,” says Lestrade.

“It was a war!” Mycroft says, startling Lestrade with his sudden intensity. “And what I am trying to tell you is that it was a war that I always knew I would lose.”

“What are you talking about?” Lestrade asks.

“Sherlock lived on the edge because that was the only place he could live. To hear him tell it, boredom was the enemy and he would do whatever it took to defeat it. Danger was just as much a drug to him as anything he ever shot into his veins.” Mycroft looks away, face tightening with unpleasant memories. “I always knew Sherlock would be his own undoing someday. I am so very sorry he brought John down with him.”

Lestrade takes a deep breath. “Mycroft, I can’t even begin to imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

Mycroft starts to laugh mirthlessly. “That’s just it, Greg. I can tell you. It’s relief.”

Lestrade’s mouth opens and shuts uselessly.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend your life not wondering ‘What if?’ but instead wondering ‘When?’ ‘How?’ Because I have spent the last 25 years knowing that someday my little brother was going to force me to bury him, but before that came to pass he would make damn sure the first thought I had upon waking each morning would be ‘Is it happening today?’”

Mycroft rolls his empty glass along the table, edge against edge, only his light touch preventing its descent. “So, my brother is dead. John is dead. My worst fears have come to pass and all I can feel is relief. Relief because now, at the very least, the waiting is over.”

Mycroft looks at Lestrade, still struggling to respond to what he has heard. Mycroft suspects that he may come to regret this moment of spontaneous truth telling, but he will deal with those consequences when the time comes. Now he feels a calm emptiness unlike anything he has ever experienced before. Lestrade is about to speak and ruin it. Mycroft lets go of the glass and it plummets to the hard oak floor, shattering. Most of the heads in the pub turn toward their table. 

“Let me get something to clean that up,” Lestrade says and marches away quickly.

Mycroft leans back in the armchair, relishing this newfound emptiness in part because he suspect it will not last. 

His mobile chirps in his pocket and, with a heavy sigh, he reaches into his jacket to retrieve it and confirm that he can ignore whatever text he has just received.

John and I need to stay dead.   
Molly has the DNA samples you will need.   
Sorry for any inconvenience.   
SH

Mycroft reads the text three times before returning the mobile to his pocket and putting his head in his hands.

When Lestrade returns with a broom, he can’t tell if Mycroft is laughing or crying.


	22. Chapter 22

John pulls the thin curtain back. He can almost make out the roiling ocean through the sheets of rain. It has been raining since they arrived in Barmouth. He and Sherlock had secured a modestly furnished flat for a steal considering it was off-season in the tiny Welsh town. Mycroft’s promised support hadn’t exactly moved them into a new income bracket. He wishes the window faced the street instead of the ocean. Sherlock has been gone for hours. How hard was it to pick up milk and something for tea? John forces his mind away from all the possible ways Sherlock could have gotten himself injured, kidnapped, or killed. No one is looking for us, John reminds himself. As far as the world is concerned, they are dead. That line of thinking is nearly as painful as his worry over Sherlock’s whereabouts.  
  
A key turns in the front door, and John lets the curtain fall back into place, looking toward the door expectantly. The knob turns, releasing the catch, then nothing happens.  
  
“Sherlock?” John asks, looking about quickly for something he could use as a weapon. He stands shakily and picks up a spindly table lamp, holding it like a cricket bat.  
  
The door flies open with a kick and Sherlock enters, his arms full of packages.  
  
“Sit down, John,” says Sherlock, dumping the parcels in a heap on the sofa. “You are supposed to be resting. And don’t use my name. It isn’t safe. We have aliases now.”  
  
John sets the lamp down and sits back heavily into the armchair by the window, coughing as he sighs with relief and annoyance. “I’m not calling you Steve. I’m just not. And besides, you just called me John.”  
  
“John is an alias, John,” says Sherlock absently, riffling through the packages until he finds the toaster-sized one he is apparently looking for.  
  
“Not when it’s my real name, it’s not,” John says. “Yesterday you said Mycroft’s papers have me down as James.”  
  
“John is a nickname for James.”  
  
“No, it’s really not.”  
  
“People do use nicknames, John,” Sherlock says, clearly ignoring John. “In an attempt to strengthen tribal bonds against an indifferent universe they can neither control nor understand, humans name and rename each other.” He rips the paper from the parcel and reveals a small Styrofoam cooler. “Sentiment,” he says giving John a brief, triumphant smile.  
  
“Fine,” John says, smiling back despite himself. “In that case, _Steve_ , your nickname is Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock stands and empties the cooler’s contents onto John’s lap. Six fat pouches of fluid smack into his thighs as he yelps in surprise. Sherlock tosses another package from the sofa onto his lap. “Here,” he says, taking the cooler and walking out the front door. “A doctor said you might need those.” He closes the door behind him.  
  
“Where are you going?” John calls after him. “Sherlock? Hey!” John listens but can hear Sherlock’s footsteps descend the stairs and leave the building. John sighs again, turning his attention to the contents of his lap. The pouches contain tobramycin, an intravenous antibiotic with a reputation for superior lung penetration. John nods approvingly. Sometimes Sherlock does listen to him. He opens the other package to find an IV kit. He looks around the room again and decides the coat rack will make a reasonable IV pole substitute. He drags the rack next to the chair and collapses back into it. More than the pain, it is the fatigue that is getting to him. He can’t remember ever feeling this weak.  
  
He takes a few steadying breaths and starts to unwind the tubes he will need, connecting the lines to the tobramycin bag with practiced movements. John selects a 20-gauge needle from the kit, rubbing his forearm with an alcohol pad for good measure before inserting the needle.  
  
When Sherlock returns ten minutes later, John is a sweating, swearing mess. Sherlock puts the Styrofoam cooler on the coffee table and rushes over.  
  
“John? What is it?”  
  
“This bloody thing!” John grimaces, pulling out the needle once more. “I keep hitting the wall. It’s different doing this on yourself!” John puts a wad of cotton over his latest puncture wound, his face tight with frustration.  
  
“Allow me,” Sherlock says, taking the needle from John and deftly slipping it into his forearm before John can protest. John feels only the briefest sting and then the peculiar sensation of cool fluid seeping into his bloodstream.  
  
John looks up at Sherlock in amazement. “How did you...?” Sherlock looks away from John in embarrassment. “Oh. Right,” says John. “Um, thank you. That was... good.”  
  
Sherlock picks up the cooler and takes it over to the flat’s kitchenette, setting it on the counter. He removes the cover and frowns down at the contents.  
  
“What’s in the cooler?” asks John, eager to change the topic from Sherlock’s proficiency with needles.  
  
“A problem,” says Sherlock, reaching in and removing a damp dead pigeon, which he sets on the counter, crouching down so he is eye-level with the bird.  
  
“Come on, Sherlock, I thought we agreed not to have dead things here. There isn’t enough room.”  
  
“I never agreed to that,” says Sherlock, gently opening the beak with the tine of a fork.  
  
“Oh, Christ,” John says looking at his arm in horror. “Did you just pick that pigeon up then come in here and stick a needle in my arm? Are you trying to kill me, Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock releases the beak and sighs dramatically. “Honestly, John. Your veins are now brimming with antibiotics. What does it matter what I touched? Think.” He turns back to the pigeon, testing the rigidity of the claws. “I found this bird eleven feet from the entrance to the back stairwell. Our stairwell. It has been dead less than six hours.”  
  
“And you suspect murder?” John asks, pulling the curtain back to watch the waves beat against the rocky shore.  
  
“You may be content to sit there doing nothing but stare wistfully at the ocean, but it’s possible the bird may have been poisoned. I mean to find out by what means and by whom.”  
  
“Jesus, would you listen to yourself? It’s a dead pigeon. Not exactly uncommon.”

  
“But, John—”  
  
“No, Sherlock!” John shouts, suddenly angry. “What that hell is the point of all this if you are going to be this paranoid? If we are going to jump at every shadow and cringe at every noise and suspect _dead pigeons_ then why can’t we do that on Baker Street with our real names and our real friends and our real lives? Hmm? I thought being dead was supposed to keep us safe, remember? Why else are we doing this? Because, I have to tell you, knowing what is going on back home, knowing what they are going through, _again_ , does not make me feel real good about being _safe_.” John spits out the last word as though it were vulgar.  
  
Sherlock stares at John, his right hand clasped around the fork, his left index finger frozen in mid-probe of the pigeon’s breast bone. After a moment, Sherlock sets the fork down next to the bird and walks over to the sofa, pushing the remaining packages to one side so he can sit.  
  
“John, I...” Sherlock begins. “I apologize. This life is...challenging. It’s understandable that you may regret your decision, but I implore you to keep in mind why we are doing this. There is real danger out there, and I...can’t see it yet. I don’t know if it will find us or when or what it will look like.” Sherlock’s eyebrows knit tightly and John can see that it is costing him to admit to this level of uncertainty. “I do know that it would find us instantly on Baker Street, and, frankly, in light of recent events, I’m no longer confident in my ability to anticipate the threats and stop them in time.” Sherlock looks up at John. “I know you are suffering and I am sorry for that, but so long as it is in my power to choose, I will always choose to have you alive, alive and suffering if need be, than have you otherwise.”  
  
John holds Sherlock’s gaze for a beat before turning his head to the window. “I know you would.”  
  
“My position on the matter is no doubt clear to you.”  
  
“Is it easier this time?” John asks after a minute of tense silence.  
  
“Is what easier?”  
  
“This,” John gestures vaguely at the Spartan room, “Being...dead.”  
  
“Everything is easier when you’re here.”  
  
John gives him a sad laugh. “Yeah. For me, too.”  
  
Sherlock smiles but his eyes remain somber.  
  
John indicates the pile of packages with his chin. “Is there tea in there?” he asks.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why don’t you get rid of the pigeon and put the food away?” suggests John. He marvels when Sherlock immediately complies. He figures he has another 36-48 hours of this behavior before Sherlock reverts back to himself and John will once again be in charge of the planning, execution, and maintenance of the daily minutiae of their lives that Sherlock typically deems beneath his notice.  
  
John eyes the remaining packages. “What’s this other stuff?” he asks as Sherlock stuffs bread, milk, Weetabix, tea, and dish liquid into the tiny refrigerator. He dumps the pigeon back into the cooler and then kicks it beneath the small kitchen table. John sighs.  
  
“Supplies,” says Sherlock, wiping his hands on his trousers. “From Mycroft.”  
  
“Oh,” says John. “That’s nice.”  
  
Sherlock gives him a baffled look as if to say Mycroft may be a great many things, but he is never _nice_.  
  
John shrugs. “You got the paper, too. That’s good. The only thing I’ve found to read around here is a copy of _The Secret_ that another renter must have left.”  
  
“I got all the London papers sold in Barmouth. What is it?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The secret. What is it?”  
  
“How the hell should I know, Sherlock? Do I look like a middle-aged housewife to you? Read it yourself if you need to know so badly. Hand me a paper, will you?”  
  
Sherlock tosses John _The Sun_ while he opens _The Telegraph_ on the coffee table in front of him. John hates _The Sun_ but he starts thumbing through it anyway. On page two there is a story about the explosion at Newport Cemetery. Authorities blame a gas leak from forgotten pipes installed in a hastily constructed underground kitchen back when the crypt had been used as an air raid shelter. John catches himself nodding appreciatively at Sherlock’s cleverness. Page three has a piece on the fatalities from the explosion. A large photograph of Sherlock, that ridiculous hat again, and a smaller picture of himself, slightly blurry and in black and white. It’s his headshot from his blog he realizes. Well that’s just...lazy. The story has all the histrionics to be expected of the rag. A recap of Sherlock’s previous “death,” catty speculation that perhaps he had it coming after lying the first time around. John wasn’t even mentioned until the second to last paragraph.  
  
“Oh my God, are you kidding me?” John shouts at the paper. “Sherlock, listen to this: ‘Also found within the wreckage were the remains of Dr. John H. Watson, husband of Holmes.’ Where the hell do they get this stuff? Does their fact-checker use a Magic 8 Ball?” He throws the paper onto the floor in disgust.  
  
Sherlock clears his throat and flips several pages of _The Telegraph_. “I honestly do not know the methods of their research department.”  
  
John narrows his eyes at Sherlock. He can tell when Sherlock is avoiding a topic, and it is almost never a good thing. He is about to pursue it when something catches his eye. The paper has fallen open to the classified section, a hodge-podge of items for sale, poorly coded personal ads, and pedestrian messages to dead loved ones. One of these has a border around it that reminds John of the wallpaper pattern from the Baker Street sitting room.  
  
John reaches down and lifts the page. It is indeed a message for the dead.

  
  
S &J, Condolences on your recent passing. You will be missed. Catch you later. ~ T

 

  
 The End.


End file.
